


Ramage and the Exiles

by DisaLanglois



Category: Age of Sail - Fandom, Historical RPF, Hornblower - C. S. Forester, Napoleonic Era, Napoleonic Wars - Fandom, Nicholas Ramage
Genre: Age of Sail, Battle, Boats and Ships, Canon-Typical Violence, Dudley Pope, Fighting Sail, First In The Fandom, Gen, Historical References, Lord Ramage series, Napoleonic Wars, Naval history, Sea Battles, Sea Voyage, Sir Sidney Smith, Slow Burn, The Royal Navy, sea stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-08-27 05:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 160,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8389585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisaLanglois/pseuds/DisaLanglois
Summary: The year is 1807.   Bonaparte is threatening to invade Portugal, unless the Portuguese Prince Regent declares war on  Britain.  Admiral Sir Sidney Smith sails with a fleet to Lisbon, to aid the Portuguese Navy  - or destroy them. Captain Nicholas Ramage and HMS Dido   sail to join Smith, and he is shocked to find an old enemy waiting for him.  Captain Croucher has tried to kill Ramage twice, and failed.  Now he has Ramage right where he wants him ...





	1. Ramage sets sail

**Author's Note:**

> As far as I know, this is the only Ramage fic on the entire Internet...  
> This fic is my attempt to exorcise Ramage from my mind, where he has been lurking for decades.

The rain pattered against the gables of the George Inn.  It was cold, miserable November weather, but the sitting room was warm and snug. 

Captain Nicholas Ramage held his copy of the Morning Post upright in one hand, and sent his empty coffee cup back to the table with the other.  He turned the page, and read on.

More columns about the bombardment of Copenhagen...

Ramage shook his head.  He was secretly glad he been in the West Indies until last month, and had missed that commission.  He understood the reasons for the Copenhagen mission, but bombarding civilians seemed like a dreadfully un-English thing to do. 

“By this time tomorrow,” Sarah said, "You'll be at sea.” 

Ramage looked up at her, and was struck by her expression.  She looked as if she was close to silent tears.  

“The sooner I’m gone, the sooner I’ll be back,” he promised. 

 “I’m not sad because you’re going,” she said.  “I’m sad because you're not even here yet.” 

“I am here!” he said, surprised. 

“You’re not _really_ here,” she said.  “Gianna told me it always takes you a week to properly _be here._   And now we’ve only had one week, and she’s right …”  She pressed her hands to her face. 

"My heart is with you," he said.  "Always."

"I wish you didn't have to go," she whispered. 

He knew what she was feeling.  It seemed their marriage had hardly started yet.  He had spent so much time at sea; she had spent so much time in France.  They had been apart far more than they had been together. 

"I wish I didn't have to go," he said.  "But Lisbon is not that far.  I will probably come back in two months.”   

“And what if this business with Portugal does not blow over?” she said.  “What if you and the _Dido_ spend the next two years blockading Lisbon?  What if we never have enough time to...?”

"We will!" he said.  "We have plenty of time!  We're both young, and..."

There was a knock at the door.  “Captain?” a voice called. 

Ramage glanced at Sarah.  “Come in,” he called. 

A second later Paolo Orsini opened the door. 

Midshipman the Count Orsini had grown into a tall and handsome young man.  His black hair was brushed forward in a fashionable Brutus cut, and the style suited his rich Italian complexion and his liquid black eyes.  Paolo Orsini could have been the model for a Caravaggio painting, Ramage thought, if Caravaggio had ever painted the uniform of a master’s mate.   

“Paolo,” Sarah said.  “Come in!”

“Lady Sarah,” Orsini said, coming inside the room.  He shut the door behind him.  “Uncle Nico.”

“Are you looking for your Aunt Gianna?” Ramage asked.  “You just missed her.”

“No, Uncle Nico.  We will say our farewells later.  No, I have come looking for you, Captain.  I have a letter for you.” 

Paolo rarely called him Uncle Nico, unless it was an intimate conversation between nephew and his almost-uncle.  When they were discussing the ship’s business, Orsini spoke to him in English, and called him ‘sir.’ 

“For me?” 

Orsini reached into his pocket, and brought out a letter.  “I was asked to bring it to you, and put it into your hand directly.”

Orsini held out the letter, and Ramage took it. 

He saw his own name written on the letter.  He turned it over, and was surprised to see that the wax had been sealed with a monkey’s-fist knot, instead of a signet.  Only a sailor would use a knot for a seal, he thought. 

“Do you know what this is?” Ramage asked, unease spreading in him. 

“I have an idea, Uncle, yes,” Orsini said.  “They asked me to send it, because they were worried lest it be considered a mutinous assembly.”

 _“Is_ it a mutinous assembly?” Ramage asked, surprised.

“It isn’t, Uncle.  I think you will understand when you read it.  I was told the letter does not need a reply.  I mean, that it does not want a reply.   By your leave, Uncle Nico?” and now Paolo was bowing again.

“Of course,” Ramage said. 

Paolo bowed to Lady Sarah, and then he was gone again. 

“What on earth?”  Sarah said.  She got up and walked behind Ramage, resting her hands on his uniform epaulettes to see over his shoulder. 

“I hope this isn’t what it looks like,” Ramage said. 

“Which is?” 

“A letter of grievances from the seamen,” Ramage said.  “Usually a signed in a round-robin, so no individual’s name can be singled out as a ringleader.  I’ve never had one before but the Navy takes a very dim view.”

“Well, go on, open it,” Sarah said.  “I can’t imagine what the Dido’s men have to complain about.”

Ramage broke the seal and unfolded the letter.  He looked down on a square of rough  handwriting, with a swirl of signatures around it.  He had to tilt the paper against the light to read it. 

_Dear Sir…_

_We are all good Freinds in this Ship and Honest Men and good freinds need to look after each othor and it is for this Resin that we are rating to you regoding our shipmate Mr Thomas Jackson of South Carolina who is a Good Man and true freind but he is also fifty three years in ages and that on the 24 instant of October last Month at Night he did nearly fall from the Fore Top Galant Mast being only presarved from his Doom by the Swift Action of a nearby Shipmate and that othor things of this Like have happened unseen by the Officers the Reason which we conker to be his age which is fifty three years in ages We Raspicfl submit that on your nolage of this you may be Moved to presarve Mr Jackson by removing him from the Watch and Station bill under the same Orders of Mr Southwick who is farbiding under Orders not to climb anything more high than a Chair and not to leave the Deck under any sirk and stands We Respectfully Submit that we rate this Letter not in any Spirit of dischord or Mautunous Assembly but as we are all good and Loyal seamen and freinds of Mr Jackson and servants of the King God Bless Him._

Ramage had to read it twice.

“Well!” Sarah said.  “It is a grievance, of sorts!”

“It’s the damnedest grievance I’ve ever heard of!”  Ramage said.  “And it _is_ a round robin, but not because they’re scared of the _Navy!_ Oh no!  They’re scared of someone _much closer_ than the Admiralty!” 

He looked at the signatures written all around the letter.  William Stafford’s rough initials were there, and Alberto Rossi’s mark, and Gilbert’s signature, and twenty more.  All of them were good friends of Thomas Jackson, captain’s coxswain, the Good Man And Honest Freind.  No wonder they asked Paolo Orsini to deliver this letter! 

“It’s true what they’re saying?”

“It’s true,” Ramage said.  “And I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.  Jackson must be well over fifty by now.” 

“He’s not a top-man any more?” Sarah asked. 

“No,” Ramage said.  “But he still goes aloft all the time.  He has excellent eyesight, and the best memory in the ship.  If he goes aloft and says that the ship on the horizon is, say, the _Bedford,_ then I know she is the _Bedford._   I trust Jackson’s eyesight as well as my own.” 

Thomas Jackson was listed in the _Dido'_ s muster book as the captain's coxswain, and as the only American citizen aboard. 

But the muster book said so little! Thomas Jackson had been at Ramage’s side right from the Torre di Buranaccio.  The Torre di Buranaccio had been the greatest turning point of Ramage’s life.  He had met Gianna, he had gained his first command; he had met Lord Nelson.  Mutinies, and pirates ... hurricanes and wrecks … St Vincent and Trafalgar … and Jackson had been there through all of it.  He and Jackson had sailed together, fought together, saved each other’s lives more often than they could count.

Ramage realized that his hand was moving up to rub the old scar above his brow. 

 “What will you do?”

“I’ll think of another post for him … something that keeps him on the deck.  The topmasts are not the place for a man over fifty, and losing his balance.” 

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, Ramage left the George Inn and walked down to the docks, feeling sick and heavy inside. 

He was leaving behind the woman he loved more than anyone in the world – but he could do nothing else.  He had a duty to do, and a war to fight. 

The Ramage family had always served their country in war.  The Earldom was one of the oldest in the country, and the Viscountcy, which Ramage was allowed to use as the eldest son, was even older.  And for almost all of those generations the Ramage family had served their King at sea. The family church at St Kew in Cornwall was filled with memorial plaques, commemorating ancestors who had died on distant waters, fighting forgotten battles.  

 _Noblesse oblige:_ along with his family's wealth and title came the expectation that he would do his duty, as his ancestors had done. 

And as his descendants would do. One day, he promised himself.  One day he would retire, and never leave Sarah’s side again.  One day there would be children.  

Ramage walked through the dockyard gates in the rain, pushing through the crowds of men pouring in the opposite direction out of the wharves and yards.  Nobody paid any mind to the naval officer in his black cloak.  The dock workers were knocking off from their day’s labour, and heading home through the rain to hot dinners, or to the Portsmouth taverns. 

Ramage went down to the water steps, and hired a boat to take him out to the _Dido._   The boatmen left him alone to think, and he looked at his ship as they approached her over the cold dark water.

HMS _Dido_ loomed like a fortress, as if she had been built straight into the water like a stone tower.  Her figure-head scowled out to sea: Dido, the warrior queen of Carthage. 

A seventy-four was a damned big ship.   She was 170 feet long, with a crew of 625 men (and four women he was not supposed to know about)  Her gunports concealed enough cannons to sink his beloved _Calypso_ in a single broadside.  She was one of the most complex machines that mankind had ever built – and she was all his.  His King had entrusted her to him.  He was responsible for every spar and rope in her, every shot she fired and every knot she sailed. 

 It took a few minutes for lookouts to notice the boat approaching.   “Boat ahoy!”

The coxswain of the boat stood up. 

“Dido!” he roared, so that the ship knew that her  captain was approaching. The boatmen tossed their oars, water streaming down from the blades, and hooked onto the _Dido’_ s black hull. 

“Thank you,” Ramage said.  He stood up.  He waited a moment for the sea to lift the boat to meet the _Dido,_ and stepped across to the manropes and battens in a single stride.  Then he was securely on the ladder, and climbing.  He pulled himself in through the break in the bulwark.

The salute broke out around him.  The boatswain’s pipes screamed.  The sideboys saluted.  The deck was a welter of lamps in haloes of rain. 

Ramage's first lieutenant was waiting for him with a salute and a smile. 

“Mr Kenton,” Ramage said, returning both salute and smile. 

“Captain,” Kenton said, dropping his hand. 

Peter Kenton was small, red-haired and blue-eyed, with freckled skin that tormented him in the tropics.  Kenton might be tiny, but he was respected by men who towered a foot over his head; officers and seamen alike.  He was an excellent sailor, and a cool commander in combat. 

Ramage turned to walk aft to the quarterdeck, and Kenton fell into step next to him. 

“Are we ready for sea, Mr Kenton?”

“I regret not yet, sir,” Kenton said, “But we will be by dawn.”

The _Dido_ was a mess!  She swarmed with work! There were piles of stores on the decksk, and bundles and boxes were streaming in over the sides, minute by minute.  Ramage had decided to sort out the finer details of trimming once they were at sea.  HMS _Dido_ was going to weigh anchor right on schedule, and that was all anyone outside the ship needed to know.  This mess was their secret. 

 “What are we still lacking?” Ramage asked 

“Carpenter’s stores, sir, gunner’s stores, hay for the manger…”  Kenton rattled off his list from memory, ticking each item off on his fingers.  “The new signal flags are aboard and stowed.  And only one of the new midshipman came aboard. The other’s still missing.”

“The men?” Ramage asked. 

“All back but four, sir.”

“We’ll just have to sail without them,” Ramage said.  

The port admiral had looked at Ramage as if he was insane when he said he was giving the larboard watch two weeks’ leave, and seriously expected them all back,, but Ramage had given his men liberty before.  This time their leave had been cut short, and those four men probably didn’t even know that their ship was sailing without them.  

The second lieutenant, George Hill, was approaching Ramage and Kenton.  “Good evening, Captain,” he greeted, touching his hat with a flawless salute. 

“Evening, Mr Hill,” Ramage returned the salute. 

George Hill was the opposite of Kenton in every way.  He was the son of a London banker and a rich Parisian socialite; about as French as an Englishman could be.   He was tall and languid, with a louche wit that took some people aback,  but Hill had proven that he could both sail and fight, in English or in French.

“All of our water’s stowed, sir,” Hill said. 

“Good.” 

“By your leave, sir, I think I can see Mr Loach coming back with the green cutter.  Please God, may he have our gunner’s stores with him…”

“Very good.  Carry on, gentlemen,” Ramage said. 

“Aye aye, sir,” Kenton said cheerfully, and moved away, rubbing his hands together energetically.  “All right, you lot!” he called.  “Let’s get back to that lift!  Green cutter’s coming back!” 

Ramage turned around, leaving them to their work. 

He had work of his own to do tonight, and it was all his own fault.  He had limitless authority in the ship, but he also had limitless liability.  He could delegate everything, but he alone could sign for it.  His clerk usually dealt with the grunt work, sending documents past Ramage’s signature like a line of sheep, but Luckhurst had developed a bloody cough two days out from Portsmouth, and he had been sent ashore to the hospital.  A wet drafty warship was not the place for Luckhurst, and Ramage would have to handle the mountain of paperwork single-handed.

He walked forward to the quarterdeck rail, and looked forward over the waist of the ship. 

The third lieutenant, William Martin, was talking to the ship's purser by the main hatch.  Martin was a cheerful young man, with bright blue eyes and a round face.  He was popular in the ship, and a skilled flute-player - a skill he was trying to teach Orsini without much success. 

On the fo’c’sle, Mr Southwick, the elderly sailing master, was supervising a group of seamen, who were carrying out last-minute checks of the foremast standing rigging.  Ramage could see Southwick’s long white hair hanging in wet streamers around his face. 

Paolo Orsini was half-way up the topmast, being Mr Southwick’s eyes aloft.  Paolo had crashed disastrously through two examinations for lieutenant in a row, but surely he would get it right on the third attempt.  He was learning diligently from Mr Southwick,  and there was nothing wrong with his navigation now.  Ramage would put the boy’s name forward again the next time they were in port, as many times as it took. 

 And there was Thomas Jackson by the larboard gangway, coordinating the falls of the red cutter. 

Jackson turned on his heel as if he had felt someone watching him, and spotted Ramage. They were too far apart for a salute, but Jackson raised his hand in a flicker of a greeting, and Ramage returned it.  Between two men who had known each other so well for so long, the small gesture was like an embrace.  Jackson’s slow South Carolina drawl was so much a part of Ramage’s life that Ramage no longer even heard it. 

How old was Jackson now, anyway?  He’d been around forty when Ramage met him, old enough to be Ramage’s father, which meant he must be well over fifty by now. 

Ramage could feel the crinkle of the letter in his pocket. 

Ramage knew the mastheads well from his years as a midshipman.  He rarely climbed aloft now, but there were some things you did not forget.  When you were so high, the ship’s motion was amplified.  The wind clutched at your body.  The void seemed to drag at your eyes.  The deck looked as tiny as a wooden clog. 

The topmen who worked up there were the best seamen in the ship; they had to be.  They had to know exactly what they were doing, because they had to do it in any weather, any time of day or night, and without orders.  There were no life-lines up there.  A fall from that height would be fatal; maybe not instantly, but inevitably. 

Ramage had a sudden mental image of Jackson plummeting from the masthead, spiralling to crack on the deck… 

No; he could not see that happen.   He would rather dent Jackson’s pride than lose him. 

But it wouldn’t be enough to just order him down, or he would know someone had ratted out his secret to the Captain.  The letter in Ramage’s pocket was a plea for help from Jackson’s friends to the only man who could help them.  Ramage would have to move Jackson around in the Watch and Station Bill, so that Jackson never had a reason to go aloft. 

And he would keep Jackson _aft._   A seventy-four was a damned big ship.  If he promoted Jackson away from the quarterdeck, he would never have reason to speak to him again. 

Ramage would have to think of something; some innocuous post that would keep Jackson’s feet squarely on the deck…

* * *

 

 _“Accidenti!”_  Paolo Orsini complained.  “This English weather!  I do not understand why the people of England do not all move to France!  It is warm in France!” 

He climbed from the foremast shrouds to the rail, and jumped down to the deck.  His clothes were wet outside and in.  His uniform felt as clammy as if he had been pressed into a pastry-case.  

The old sailing-master Mr Southwick met him on the ship’s fo’c’sle.  Southwick was strictly forbidden to climb anything higher than a chair, so Orsini did all the climbing for him instead. 

“I don’t know why you dislike the rain so much, when all _that_ is right alongside!”  Southwick gestured with one hand over the ship’s side. 

“Because _that_ does not go down my neck!” Orsini said.  “It is too cold!” 

“You’ve only sailed in warm waters, my boy,” Southwick said.  “We might be posted to Russia next.  You’ll cry for this nice soft English rain one day, you’ll see.” 

“I will deal with that when it happens," Orsini said firmly.  "For now, let us go to Lisbon!”

“You have thin blood, that’s what your problem is, lad.  You need a brisk Baltic winter to toughen you up.” 

Southwick looked upward, bending from his knees so that his spine did not bend the wrong way.  He watched the men who were working in the foretop, ensuring that nothing up there had perished under the baking sun of the West Indies. 

Orsini watched him.  He could tell that Southwick’s spine was hurting him.  Soon, he knew, Mr Southwick would be retiring to his cabin with a hot water bottle and a mustard plaster.  Southwick was much too old to be at sea. 

And yet, no-one wanted to leave him on the beach.  Even the captain did not want to leave Mr Southwick behind!  Uncle Nicholas had immediately agreed when Orsini offered to take over the physical parts of Mr Southwick’s job.  Orsini had not needed to use any of the rhetorical arguments he had prepared to plead his case.  He was officially Mr Southwick's deputy now. 

Speaking of Uncle Nicholas…  Orsini turned around, and stared aft. 

He could see Uncle Nicholas on the quarterdeck.  He was pacing back and forth,  rubbing those scars on his brow, the way he always did when he was thinking. 

If only the Captain knew how well his crew knew his mannerisms!   The combinations of stammering, blinking, and rubbing that  scar were like a Masonic code.  “When Mr Ramage starts blinkin’ his eyes and wobblin’ his Rs, it’s time to tack about, toot sweet!”   

It was strange, too, how the men called the Captain ‘Mr Ramage.’  He was never the Old Man, or the Skipper - only _Mr_ Ramage.  He was a titled aristocrat, but to his men he was _Mr_ Ramage.  Orsini guessed it was a term of affection.  He could be a lord elsewhere.  At sea he was _Mr_ Ramage. 

Ah, there it was!  The Captain had an idea!  Ramage stopped short as if struck blind.  Then he spun on his heel and marched under the overhang of the poop deck. 

“Mr Orsini!” Southwick’s exasperated voice broke into Orsini’s thoughts.  “Are you going to stand there and dream all night?  Out along the jib-boom, if you please, my boy!” 

“Aye aye, sir!” 

* * *

 

 

Ramage's cabin door opened directly behind the ship’s wheel, so that he could reach it in a few strides if there was an emergency at night.  He walked around the wheel, and nodded a greeting to the Marine sentry who stood guard on his door. 

"Evening, Hales," he said, opening his door.  "Please pass the word for my coxswain." 

"Aye aye, sir!" the Marine said, and inhaled his leathery military lungs. 

Ramage closed the door behind him quickly.  "PASS THE WORD FOR THE CAPTAIN'S COXSWAIN!" 

Ramage walked aft through the glass doors into the great cabin. 

In the Royal Navy, rank equalled space, and the captain had the most space of all.  The great cabin was furnished for the domestic comfort of a gentleman.  The sternlights were a sweep of square windows, stretching across the whole width of the ship’s stern, and sloping down toward the ship’s wake.  Ramage had a long dining table, comfortable stuffed chairs, and a wine cooler.  In candle-light, as now, the white bulkheads were softened to a buttery yellow.  The great cabin could have been any gentleman's drawing room - except for the 12-pounder cannons, huge black beasts yoked to their gun-ports.  The _Dido_ was a machine of war, before all else. 

Just forward of the great cabin were his sleeping cabin and his day cabin - the office where he did most of his daily work.  He even had a private water-closet, built into the corner of the stern gallery. 

Ramage walked around the end of his dining table, and stopped in front of the sternlights.  He stood looking at his own reflection in the dark glass. 

He turned his idea over again, but he could find no flaws in his plan.  Once he had connected his two problems, they seemed to click together in his mind like two magnets. 

Ramage had just had time to open the book that listed the Navy’s rates of pay and look up the figure he wanted, when the Marine sentry knocked on the door and announced that his coxswain wanted to come in. 

“Come in, Jackson!” Ramage shouted. 

A moment later Jackson came into the day cabin.  He saw Ramage through the glass door to the great cabin, and walked through to meet him.  He paused with his hand at his brow. 

“You sent for me, sir?”  he asked. 

“Yes, I did,” Ramage said.  “There’s something I need to discuss with you.  Let’s sit, shall we?”

Ramage sat down on the bench under the sternlights, and Jackson took a seat on the settee opposite him. 

“Remind me, Jackson – how long have you been in the Navy?”

“Let’s see.  I joined the _Sibella_ in Toulon in ‘93.  So that would be about fourteen years, sir.” 

“I’ve offered you a promotion to master’s mate before, but you didn’t take it,” Ramage said. 

“No, sir.  I reckon I’m a bit long in the tooth to be jumping around with the midshipmen.”

 _Long in the tooth…_ Jackson’s face was lean and lined.  His hair had receded, and what was left was more grey than blond.  How had Ramage not noticed that Jackson was growing old right under his gaze?

Jackson’s grey eyes were still sharp, though.  He was watching Ramage keenly.  

“The reason I asked to speak to you is because I would like to offer you a new berth in the ship,” Ramage said.  “It’s a position that must be filled urgently.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You’ve heard about poor old Luckhurst?”

“I did, sir, poor man.”

“I want to offer you _his_ job.”

There was a momentary silence.  Jackson blinked.  “You want me to be a _clerk?”_ he blurted. 

“My secretary,” Ramage said quickly.   “You’ll have your own cabin, and the right to walk the quarterdeck as one of the cockpit officers, and you’ll mess in the gunroom.  Thomas Jackson, confidential secretary to Captain Lord Ramage … how does that sound?” 

“I’ve never been one for pushing papers, sir.”  Jackson wrung up his mouth to the left, as if the idea was a novel flavour that he wasn’t sure he liked yet.  Ramage had a nasty vision of Jackson suddenly forgetting how to write in a round hand. 

“It doesn't have to be permanent," he said quickly.  "But I need a clerk immediately - I mean secretary - and I don't have time to look for one. It doesn't have to be permanent.”  

Jackson ran his hand over his hair.  “On one condition.”

“You're not in a position to make conditions,” Ramage told him, sharply.  "You can't always arrange things to your own liking." 

“Well, you know my motto, sir.  Life, liberty, and the pursuit of arranging things to my own liking.”  Jackson grinned.  He was looking for Ramage’s reaction.  "One condition."  

“All right.  One condition.” 

“The same thing that I asked you before, sir, in the old _Kathleen._   Not to put my name in your despatches.” 

"Really?"  Ramage stared at him.  “You know that you would be famous by now, if you had let me name you!"

"It's not about that." 

 Ramage had been calling Jackson a 'Senior Rating' in his despatches for years.  Only a few people in the Admiralty knew that all the 'Senior Ratings' were really the same man, over and over again. 

"Your name would be in that song!” 

Someone had written a song about Ramage and Jackson rescuing the Marchesa di Volterra from the Torre di Buranaccio.  Ramage cringed whenever he heard it – and these days, he seemed to hear it everywhere.  But nobody knew the name of The Faithful Seaman, Stout-hearted And True.  

“It’s not about the song, sir,” Jackson said, firmly.   “I’ll be your clerk, or secretary, or anything you want to call it - as long as my name does not leave the ship.” 

Ramage rubbed his index finger against the scar on his brow.  He had fallen into his own trap.  He’d sold himself his idea, as much he’d sold it to Jackson.  He knew Jackson was capable of the jump to the quarterdeck.  The men knew that Jackson had sailed with Ramage for years, and they would make no trouble about one of their own suddenly being elevated to the quarterdeck. His officers trusted him.  Nothing would be more natural than Jackson stepping into a new place as secretary.  

“Very well, I accept.  Your name won't leave the ship.” 

“Then you have yourself a clerk, sir,”  Jackson said. 

“Confidential secretary!” Ramage insisted.  

“Secretary, then.”  Jackson held out his hand for a shake, suddenly very American again. 

Ramage took his hand, and they shook hands firmly on the agreement.

“I’ll pass the word to Mr Kenton.  Come along.  There’s a mountain of work to do.”  He stood up. 

“Sir?  You want me to start now?”

“Of course!  We’re sailing in the morning.  The last of the papers need to be sent ashore at first light.” 

“I’ve left everything I was doing, sir.” 

“Stafford can take over from you,” Ramage said.  “And you know Stafford is more than ready for it.  He'll make a good cox.”  

Ramage walked  to the day cabin, where the stack of papers and books was waiting on the table to be dealt with.  

Jackson followed him through the door, and stopped dead, staring. “All that?  By tomorrow?”

Ramage pulled out a chair, and pushed Jackson into it with one hand on his lean shoulder.  “The Navy goes to war in paper ships, upon seas of ink, firing broadsides of quills...”

“And here I thought the Army loved paperwork,” Jackson grumbled. 

“Well, if a warship is the equivalent of a regiment, I suppose you’ve joined the general staff.”

“God help the general staff!” 

“Watch and Station Bill, Muster Book, General Order Book, Captain’s Journal …"  Ramage said, relentlessly.  He picked up his copy of the Seaman’s Vade Mecum, and put it down in front of Jackson.  “Any other form you need is probably in here.  It has specimens of just about every form you can imagine.  Lists, forms, tables, affidavits, musters, invoices, pay tickets – this one is important – surveys, inventories.  Now, shall we begin?  That was Luckhurst’s, but it’s yours now.  I keep the sand here, and if you need more ink or paper, the purser has them.  You’ve got a pen?  Let’s start with this one…” 

 

 

They worked together for a few hours in companionable brevity.  They made headway into the heaps of paperwork, setting each form aside as they worked into a neat square stack. 

Ramage was surprised when he heard the ship’s bell ring out eight bells. 

“Time flies when you’re having fun!” he said, looking up. 

“This is what you call fun, sir?”  Jackson tapped the sand from the paper, and grinned at Ramage.  “Remind me never to accept an invitation to your house.”

Ramage laughed. 

He was struck by how comfortable Jackson's company was. 

They had been much closer, once.  In the Kathleen, there had been only sixty men, and the distance between the captain and his coxswain had not been that wide.  But a seventy-four was a damned big ship - far too big for the captain and his coxswain to have any sort of intimacy. 

This had been a good idea, he thought.  The captain could talk to his secretary all day. 

There was a knock at the door and the Marine sentry announced that the ship’s surgeon wanted to be admitted.  A moment later, Dr Bowen was standing at attention. 

“Good evening, sir,” Bowen said. 

 “I was starting to think we’d lost you!” Ramage said.

Bowen had aged too, but he had not changed.  His temples were grey, but he still moved with the precision of a skilled surgeon.

Bowen had been one of the most highly-paid surgeons in London.  Still merely a tradesman, in the rigid structures of Society – but a trade in which the lives of lords and dukes had rested in his skilled hands.  _Had_ – before Bowen drank his way out of his practice, out of his career, and into the Navy, the only employer desperate enough to hire a drunken surgeon.   In 1797 he washed up in the Triton,  where Ramage had refused to trust his men’s health to a drunkard.  He and Southwick had set out to dry Bowen by force. 

Ramage could still vividly recall those days – when Bowen had shrieked in delirium, when he had begged for a drop – just a drop – just one more drop.  But the Articles of War had done for Bowen what no amount of willpower could do – and, mirabile dictu,  the rough cure had worked.  Bowen never touched liquor, and claimed never to want any.  He could have returned to his lucrative practice, but instead he devoted his expertise to the 625 men (and four women, Ramage reminded himself) of HMS Dido. 

 “Did you manage to get everything you needed?”  Ramage asked. 

Bowen shook his head.  “Frankly, sir, no, I did not.  The Transport Board sent half of what I requested.”

Ramage sighed.  “Another price we have to pay to weigh anchor on time.”

“The good news is that I managed to get an extra supply out of my pocket.  That’s where I was tonight.”

“Damn,” Ramage said.  “I’ll refund you the cost of that.  Out of my pocket.”

“I knew you would, sir, so I had them write me a receipt.”

“Ah, Jackson, that’s for you.  You know which file to put that in?” 

“Yes, sir,” Jackson said.  The receipt was whisked away. 

“On a lighter note, sir,” Bowen asked, “how is Lady Sarah?  And the Marchesa?”

“They’re both well, and send their best wishes.” 

“The wardroom was hoping the ladies would be able to come and visit the ship.” 

“They would have, if there had been more time.”  Time… time… the one thing Ramage had not had.  The sorrow that had been lying in the back of his mind leaped up, but he pressed it down again.  “Lady Sarah was rather upset that we’re leaving so soon.” 

“Ah,” Bowen said, nodding.  “Well, hopefully that is a good sign?” 

“A sign of what?” Ramage asked.

“In my experience, sir, ladies become rather over-wrought if they’re expecting.” 

“Not after only one week, surely!” Ramage said. 

Jackson cleared his throat.  “It’s possible, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.” 

 “But it’s early days yet, sir, nothing to worry about,” Bowen said, soothingly.  “These things happen on their own time-table.”

“They certainly do,” Ramage said, annoyed.  Everyone acted as if talking about it could make it happen faster!  There were very few subjects he wanted to talk about less!   “If that’s all, doctor, thank you.  You may carry on.” 

“Aye aye, sir,” Bowen said.  He left the cabin. 

“Why does everyone ask me that?” Ramage grumbled.  “What do people expect me to do? Post her a baby in the mail?”

“It’ll come, sir,” Jackson said, absently.  “When the time is right, you’ll see.” 

Ramage sat back in his chair and looked at Jackson.  The American was holding up Bowen’s receipt, and frowning at it.  He’d already put Ramage’s complaint from his mind.  “That’s a lot of bandages,” Jackson said. 

“Jackson,” Ramage said. 

“Sir?”  Jackson raised his grey eyes. 

“I know that the ship’s people look to you as a sort of envoy to me.”

“They think I’m in your confidence, sir.  And that you’re in mine.” 

Ramage couldn't imagine what secrets a seaman would have, but he supposed he could understand why the men thought Ramage shared them.  He had known Jackson for longer than any of them. 

“Whatever you hear in this cabin, cannot be shared out of this cabin,” he said.  

“I understand, sir."  

"Not even Stafford and Rossi."

"I know how to keep my own counsel," Jackson said.  "Nothing shared within these walls will leave these walls."  

“Confidential secretary,” Ramage said. 

“Confidential secretary,” Jackson agreed. 

 

* * *

 

 

Hours later, Jackson climbed the ladder to the fo’c’sle.  

He and the Captain had both worked until the small hours of the morning.  They had been interrupted every few minutes by this officer or that, reporting that this store had been taken on board, or that this task was finished.  Finally, around midnight, the sounds of hard labour had died down. 

Mr Kenton reported that the _Dido_ was ready for sea. Jackson sent the bundle of papers ashore in the last boat, just in time.  The Dido would sail this morning with a clean slate, with nobody ashore the wiser.  

His eyes were tired from squinting at his own nib by candlelight.  He had not written late into the night since the end of the Revolution.  He did not have the stamina that he used to.  

Jackson tracked down Stafford by the sound of his accent, echoing in the dark.  Stafford’s accent put him smack in the heart of London, within the sound of the Bow Bells.  He was a true Cockney, and very proud of being born in the greatest city in the world.  Sometimes, Jackson suspected him of hamming up his accent on purpose. 

Stafford and Rossi were perching on the slide of one of the fo’c’sle’s carronades.  They were keeping themselves warm,  and waiting out the last few minutes of their watch, and Stafford was talking. 

“It mazed me ‘ead, all that noise!  An’ they makes nuffin’ but pulley blocks wiv it.  The ‘ole works, and that’s all it does, makes blocks, all day!  ‘Oondreds of blocks!”

 “Does not sound the interesting,” Rossi said. 

“You ain’t ‘eard yet ‘ow many blocks they makes there!  ‘Ow many blocks do you fink they can make wiv a steam engine?  Go on, guess!”

Stafford was still banging on about his latest love.   He’d gone ashore for a week’s leave, but he only got as far as the building that housed the Dockyard's new steam engine.  He might never have come out at all, if someone from the Dido had not tracked him down and dragged him away from his new infatuation. 

“Boh!  I don’t care.  Here is Jacko,” Rossi said. _“Buongiorno!”_

 _“Is it buongiorno?”_ Jackson asked, stopping and crossing his arms against the cold.  “Or is it still _buona notte?”_

“Is almost dawn!” Rossi said.

“Where’ve you been, Jacko?”  Stafford asked. 

“Mr Ramage kept me busy last night.  And I have news for you.”   

_“Si?”_

“There’s been a change on the Watch and Station Bill.”

“Oh,” Stafford said, straightening his back with sudden interest.  He got up off the carronade slide. He gave a sideways glance at Rossi.  “We knew that was comin’, din’t we, Rosey?”

 _“Si, si.”_ Rossi was staring at Jackson closely. 

“You knew?”

“Ah,” Stafford said, and tapped the side of his nose.  “Me and Rosey ain’t as educa’ed as you, but we know which way the wind’s blowin.’ So what’s your new station, then?”

“I’ve been promoted,” Jackson said.  “To captain’s clerk.”

There was a brief silence, in which the night sounds around them seemed to bubble louder. 

“Clerk!”  Stafford sucked in a breath, as if he’d been punched. Whatever Stafford had been expecting, that wasn’t it.  

“Mr Ramage asked, and I accepted.  Started last night.”

“That weren’t what we meant!  We din’t mean – oof!”  Stafford grunted as Rossi hit him on the shoulder with rather a lot of force. 

 _“Mamma mia,_ that is good news!” Rossi dived into a stream of Italian to emphasise his pleasure.  “Clerk – that is more pay, _si?_ And you’ll be on the quarterdeck in action?”

“But…” Stafford said. 

Rossi punched him on the shoulder again, and Jackson looked at him oddly.  There was something here that he didn’t understand.  He knew these two too well.  Stafford had many virtues, but he had the cunning of a grape, and Rossi was trying to shut him up before he said something wrong.  

“It means I’ll be on the quarterdeck, yes,” Jackson said.  “It also means I’m off the larboard watch.  I’ll be an idler, from today.”

“Not just an idler,” Rossi said.  “A senior petty officer.” 

“I’ll have a cabin next to the captain.  So, officially, from this moment…” 

“This is _ciao,”_ Rossi said. 

“That wasn’t what we was espectin’,” Stafford said, as if he wanted to protest. 

“Staff, you’ll move up to captain’s coxswain in my place,” Jackson pointed out.  “And I’m not going anywhere.  My cabin door will always be open to you two.”

“But it’s a cabin on the quar’erdeck, innit?” Stafford said.  “That’s officer’s country!”

“I’ll still come up to the fo’c’sle.  And it's probably temporary, anyway.  The Captain just doesn't have time to look for a proper educated man before we sail, that's all.  Captain’s clerk is usually the stepping stone to purser, and there’s never a shortage of them!  Once he's found someone, I'll come back to the lower deck." 

“Is good news,” Rossi said, as much to Stafford as to Jackson.  “Are both happy for you, are we, Staff?”  He gave his friend a poke in the shoulder.

“Yus,” Stafford said.  “You deserves it, Jacko.”

 

* * *

 

 The next morning, Ramage went up to the quarterdeck early.  He had had only two hours of sleep, but he could probably catnap later, once they were clear of Portsmouth.  So could Jackson, for that matter – he had a cabin of his own now, right next to Ramage’s own. 

It was dawn, but the sky was still charcoal grey, and cold.  Ramage’s appearance caused a stir, as the men realized that their captain was up and about.  None of them approached him, but shifted to the lee side of the deck, yielding the windward side as tradition expected.

Ramage opened his telescope, and stretched it toward Gilkicker Point.  He felt a twinge of sorrow, and pushed it down again.  Not for a single second would he let any of the men around him notice how sad he felt.  The rain came down again, pattering on his hat and the shoulders of his cloak.  The curtains of rain blocked out his view of the point in a sheet of grey.  He lowered the telescope, and turned his back on the land. 

He chose the right time to turn around, because Kenton was just climbing up the ladder from the quarterdeck. 

Kenton put his hand to his hat.  “Captain,” he said.  “I have the honour to report that the Dido is ready for sea in all respects.”

Ramage nodded.  “Well done,” he said.  “The conn is yours this morning.  Take us to sea, if you please.”

“Aye aye, sir.  I have the conn!”    

Kenton grinned, visibly delighted by the opportunity to take a two-decker to sea.  He turned away, and his voice lofted into a shout. 

“All hands!  Stand by to weigh anchor!  Away aloft!  Stand by, the deck watches!”

Kenton used a speaking trumpet to prevent his voice from breaking into an embarrassing squeak, but his orders drove the _Dido_ into a buzz of activity.  Seamen ran this way and that in a complex dance, tailing onto ropes, throwing themselves at the capstan, racing aloft.  The _Dido_ was startled awake from her week’s sleep.

Ramage could see the confusion of the new landsmen.  To them, the whole performance must seem a riot of mad running and shouting.  They were trying to follow their orders, without a clue as to what they were supposed to achieve.  Ramage saw a boatswain’s mate grab a man by the shoulder, and tow him bodily to the rope he was supposed to be hauling. What were braces?  What were sheets?  What did ‘avast’ mean?  

On the fo'c'sle, Mr Southwick would be standing by, ready to signal to the quarterdeck the position of the anchor, so that the loosening of the sails could be timed precisely.  A crowd of seamen would be standing around the capstan by now, ready to throw their weight against the bars to raise the ship’s anchor.  The capstan was like a great screw that would slowly wind the anchor cable back into the ship. 

The ship’s fiddler struck up a tune to encourage the efforts of the men pushing with all their strength.  Instead of a more traditional ‘forebitter,’ Ramage recognised the opening bars of the Torre di Buranaccio.  He couldn’t help letting out an annoyed grunt. 

“Do you hear the song, Uncle?” Orsini asked, in Italian. 

“I hope you know I never said half of the things I say in that song!”  Ramage said. 

“Shall I tell them to stop?”  Orsini asked. 

“No,” Ramage said.  “Absolutely not!  If I let on it’s embarrassing, or I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

He looked forward over the ship, and tried to close his ears to the annoying tune.  The third lieutenant, William Martin, and the new fourth lieutenant, Jonathan Loach, were giving directions on the upper deck. 

Ramage took the opportunity to examine Loach covertly. 

 Loach was older than the rest of the lieutenants, because he had spent longer getting to his commission.  He had started on the lower deck and worked his way up, which made him something of a rarity in the Navy.  Ramage had never had an officer under him  who had ‘come up the hawser’ before, but he had been assured by the port admiral that Loach was a good officer, and deserved the step. It was just rather unfortunate about those scars…

 _“He’s a good fellow, Ramage,”_ the Port Admiral had said, _“but it’s the first thing anyone sees, and I’m afraid it leaves his good qualities in the shade.”_

Loach was handsome - on the _left_ side of his face.  On the right side, his face had been shredded from his chin to his right ear, and his nose was gone. 

It wasn’t only the scar alone that was so hideous, or the missing nose.  Patches of Loach’s beard were still doggedly growing in the crevices of his scars.  His cheek was filled with black craters where his beard could not be shaved.  He looked as if his face was being eaten away by some ghastly disease. No wonder poor Loach had struggled to find a lieutenant’s berth.  Getting a commission would have been hard enough for an officer who wasn’t a gentleman, even without looking like _that._

“Anchor’s aweigh!”

He heard Southwick’s hail from the fo’c’sle.  He had been so engaged with staring at Loach, he had not been paying attention.

 _Dido’s_ anchor had been hauled in by brute force by the men at the capstan, and it was hanging below the hull, no longer clutching at the sea bed like an invisible fist.  The ship was floating free. 

The headsails were climbing their stays like shark’s teeth.  The ship was turning, following her head around, toward the open sea.  The courses dropped free from the yards, the wet canvas rumbling loudly.  The sail handlers ran to the sheets and braces, hauling the yards around, trimming the sails.  They were under way.

The first shot of the salute cracked.  The smoke was dashed away on the icy wind. 

“Flagship’s signalling, sir!” Orsini called.  “Our number – telegraphic – “Bon voyage,” sir!”

“Acknowledge it,” Ramage said.

The _Dido_ was standing out to sea.  The arms of the Solent receded from around them, as if the ship was walking out from a dispassionate embrace.  The Channel was coming up to meet them instead, as if welcoming them back to sea.  Ramage saw the first dash of spray struck from the bows. 

A moment later _Dido’_ s jib lifted into the air, as her forefoot bit into the first swell.  She hoisted her bulk up to rise to meet the sea as it passed under her, and the poop deck lifted under Ramage’s feet.

Ramage took a deep satisfied breath, enjoying the sensation of his ship coming to life again.  It was a glorious movement, as if thousands of tons of oak and steel were breathing under his feet.  He turned to look over the taffrail. 

England was already receding into the haze behind them.  A few cables away, a small lugger was following in the _Dido’_ s wake. 

That was odd, Ramage thought.  Where could that boat be going?  And why had they set so much sail in this fresh breeze?  With that rig on that tack, surely they were risking a sudden gybe?  They must be trying to catch up with the great battleship. 

Ramage extended his telescope onto the little boat.  The lugger leaped into detail inside the dark tunnel of the glass.  He could see men below the lug sail.  They were leaping up and down, waving their arms wildly. 

“I do believe we are being pursued,” Ramage said. 

Orsini heard him.  He turned around and spotted the boat.  The big signals telescope came up, parallel to Ramage’s own. 

“That looks like Mr Mayweather," Orsini said.  

“It is,” Ramage said.  He slid the telescope closed, the rings clicking into the tubes.  He turned and went quickly down the ladder to the quarterdeck.  “Mr Kenton!” he said. 

“Sir?” 

“I have the conn!” Ramage said. He spoke loudly enough for all the men on the quarterdeck to hear.  It was a formal statement; audibly handing over immediate control of the ship so that everyone on the quarterdeck knew whose sail orders to follow. 

“You have the conn, sir!” Kenton echoed. 

Ramage inflated his lungs, feeling the tendons in his neck stand out.  “Stand by to heave to, there!” he bellowed. 

He saw the startled expression on Kenton’s face.

“I’m sorry, Mr Kenton,” he said, keeping a straight face. “Bonaparte is going to have to wait.” 

“Sir?” Kenton boggled. 

"I'm going home for tea," Ramage added. 

Kenton looked at Martin, but the third lieutenant also looked mystified. 

Ramage left them to their puzzle, and began bellowing the orders that would take the speed off the Dido.  As the ship turned, following the sound of Ramage’s voice, the hail came down from the masthead. 

“Deck there!  Boat astern is trying to catch our attention!” 

“At last,” Ramage said. “I thought that lookout was asleep up there.” 

A few minutes later, the _Dido_ had been slowed to a crawl, and then Ramage hove her to.  With her sails balanced against each other, the ship travelled neither forward nor backward, but drifted passively downwind like an enormous leaf. 

By that time, the boat was alongside.  Ramage saw five men scramble quickly from the lugger to the Dido, before they were hidden by the curve of the ship’s hull.

“You have the conn, Mr Kenton,” Ramage said.  "Get us under way again, and take us to sea." 

“Aye aye, sir,” Kenton said.  “I have the conn.”   

 Ramage left Kenton to it.  The boat was casting off already.  The boatmen hauled up the lugger’s yard again and the sail filled as sharply as a paper bag.  The boat was quickly cantering away from the _Dido_ ’s side. 

A minute later, he heard a voice.  “Captain, sir?” 

He turned, and found himself facing a boy in a midshipman’s uniform. Ye Gods, it was Jack Dawlish’s son! 

“And who might you be?”  Ramage demanded. He glared down at the boy, and tried not to laugh.

 “Sir – Mr Midshipman Henry Dawlish, sir.  Reporting for duty, sir!”   The boy saluted, but with the wrong hand. 

Jack Dawlish's son!  The last time Ramage had seen this boy, he’d been a muddy little brat playing with ducks, and here he was, a naval officer in the larval stage!  It seemed like just yesterday that Ramage, Dawlish, and Hornblower were midshipmen in the old Superb!  Now all three of them were post-captains.  Ramage had agreed to take Dawlish’s son under his wing, as one day Dawlish or Hornblower would mentor _his_ sons. 

When he had sons...

Behind little Dawlish, in a line, stood Ramage’s four missing sailors.  They were standing at attention, their faces full of misgivings. 

 “You almost missed your ship, Mr Dawlish,” Ramage said.  “Not a good start to your naval career, is it?”

“Yes, sir!”  Henry Dawlish was trying not to grin.  “But a miss is as good as a mile, sir!”

“Did you hire that lugger to chase us down?”

“Yes, sir!” the youth said. 

It must have been a wild chase, Ramage thought, chivvying the lugger to catch up with the massive warship.  Dawlish’s boy seemed to have initiative, at least, and enough character to get four grown seamen to go along with his idea.

“Very well.  I shan’t toss you over the side after all.  Mr Bennett!” Ramage hailed the nearest midshipman. 

“Sir,” Bennett said, crisply. 

“Take Mr Dawlish down to the midshipman’s berth, and see him settled in.”

“Yes, sir,” little Dawlish said, and then corrected himself.  “I mean, aye aye sir!”  

Bennett led the boy away.  The four sailors followed Bennett as well.  Mr Southwick would have four 'Runs' to cross out in the muster book, Ramage thought. 

Kenton came back up to Ramage, and whipped up one arm in a smart salute.  His face broke out in a wide grin.  “I have the honour to report that HMS _Dido_ is ready for sea in all respects!”

 

 

 


	2. The Lisbon blockade

The _Dido_ sailed into the sunset, and into the darkness of the November night. 

Ramage walked out onto the quarterdeck.  

He stood for a moment in the dark, feeling the motion of the ship around him.  The _Dido_ sailed implacably through the night.  Below, along the gundecks, hundreds of men slept in their hammocks, trusting their shipmates to steer them through the night. 

Forward,  Ramage could hear voices speaking in Italian.  A few months ago, Jackson had asked Orsini to help him practice his Italian.  He was learning well, although Orsini was not a very conventional teacher.  They just chatted together on deck, with Orsini supplying Italian vocabulary or pronunciation as needed.  

Ramage had noticed that Jackson and Orsini spoke to each other as ‘tu,’ and not with the formal respectful ‘lei.’  ‘Tu’ was informal, and used between intimates, and equals, and friends.  There was a great deal of affection between the Italian midshipman and the American seaman.  Ramage had seen Jackson a few times pushing the boy out of the line of fire behind him.  That had been when Orsini had been _small_ enough to push.  These days Jackson would probably just bounce off Orsini's big body. 

Ramage turned away from the rail, and crossed the deck to the binnacle.  The light in the glass box lit up the two compasses, and Ramage glanced down into it to check on their course.  The quartermaster and helmsmen watched him, and he nodded to them.  

“All’s well, Mr Loach?” he spoke to the lieutenant of the watch. 

“All's well, sir."

"Very good." 

This was Ramage's first chance to talk to Loach privately.  “How are you finding your first watch?” 

“I’m liking it, sir,” Loach said, a smile audible in his voice.  “She’s a fine ship, sir, and a fine crew.”

“You’ve had no trouble from the men?” 

“Not in the least, sir,” Loach said. 

"Good." 

Many officers from the lower deck found it awkward to give orders to their own class.  Sometimes, their awkwardness was reciprocated by the seamen, who resented taking the orders of a man who was no better than they were.  It could be difficult making the transition from lower deck to quarterdeck, but Ramage sensed that Loach was going to succeed.  Today, the _Dido_ ’s seamen had followed Loach’s directions with a good will.  Ramage had no hesitation about scraping off bad officers,  but he knew already that he wasn’t going to scrape off _this_ one.  

“This is your first commission as a lieutenant, Mr Loach?” Ramage said. 

“Yes, sir.  Actually, I wanted to say thank you, sir.  I was all but ready to give it up, and go back to my forge.” 

“Your forge?” Ramage echoed. 

“I was a farrier, sir,”  Loach admitted.  “The press picked me up.  I told them they were making a mistake because I was no sailor, but I reckon they were right after all,  because here I am.” 

“My word!” Ramage marvelled.  “You’ve come a long way!”

“Not so far as you’d think, sir,” Loach confided.  “Ships and horses have a lot in common.  They’re both balanced between brute force and mathematics, if you’ll allow me a bit of poetry, sir.  And there’s magic in ‘em both if you look at them fine.” 

“For what it’s worth, Mr Loach, your horses’ loss is the Navy’s gain.”

“Thank you, sir,” Loach said. 

“Good night, Mr Loach.” 

“Good night, sir.”

* * *

 

Jackson's life settled into its new pattern surprisingly quickly.  

The whole ship had taken his promotion in stride, almost as if they had been expecting it.  There was no awkwardness from Stafford or Rossi, or any of his former messmates.  There might have been awkwardness from his new messmates, but it vanished the moment he mentioned that he played whist.  The rest of the ship were all chess mad, thanks to Dr Bowen, but the whist players in the gunroom almost hugged him when they realized they had found a capable ‘fourth.’

He was also surprised by the things he was learning about his captain.  He had learned that Ramage needed a clerk more than most, because he wrote so painfully slowly.  His handwriting was so slow that Jackson itched to grab his quill from his hand and push him out of his chair. 

And Ramage didn't have the patience to sit down and deal with his paperwork systematically.  No - he liked to pile it all up until a Thursday afternoon, and turn it into a massive agonising ordeal that took _hours._ Jackson had quietly put a stop to _that._

He had also found, to his horror, that the Captain had the habit of signing whatever was put in front of him without _reading_ it first.  Jackson was going to have to put a stop to that too.  First, though, he filled out his own discharge papers,  and watched as Ramage blithely signed it.  

On the second day out from England, Jackson noticed something else.  

The Captain kept him around in the great cabin longer than he needed to.  Ramage summoned him when he didn't need him, and insisted on him doing his work in the great cabin, and interrupted him constantly to make conversation. 

Jackson took a few days to understand.  Ramage was warm and gregarious – but he was the absolute ruler over six hundred men.  He lived frozen inside a bubble of his own power.  It had to be a very lonely life.  Jackson wasn’t a clerk; he was something of a paid companion.  On the third morning out from Portsmouth, Jackson moved his pens and papers from his own tiny cuddy into the great cabin. 

Ramage said nothing, but he abandoned his bureau.  They worked companionably together in the great cabin, all the way across Biscay.   

* * *

 

Ramage came out from behind the ship's wheel.  He returned Loach’s salute, and moved across to the rail.  

It was amazing what a difference a few degrees of latitude made. 

The sun was shining. The sea and the sky were a crisp blue.  The brasswork in the ship glittered coldly.  The last stretches of Portugal unraveled on the eastern horizon.  The _Dido_ was running down the last few miles to Lisbon on a comfortable beam reach. 

On Southwick’s chart,  the coast inclined sharply away to the east into a wide shallow bay.  The coast looked like a pudding that had had a forty-mile wide spoon scooped out of it. The mouth of the Tagus was at the north-eastern corner of the scoop.

 Ramage put his hat brim into his teeth, and untied his hair.  He fretted his fingers through his hair to dry the sweat. 

He would have to decide soon whether to cut his hair fashionably short, or keep it long.  Ramage was the last officer in the ship to still wear his hair in a formal queue.  The seamen wore their pigtails blotted in tar to keep the hair from flying loose, but Naval officers resigned themselves to spending their careers picking their hair out of their teeth.  Even Mr Southwick wore his hair short, now. 

He turned his face into the wind, so the breeze streamed his hair back as he tied it up again.  Now, if only fashion could move away from breeches and stockings, he thought.  He would be right on top of _that_ fashion. 

Orsini was a few yards away on the quarterdeck, teaching a few of the midshipmen.  Jackson was listening.  

“No,” Orsini said to Dawlish.  “All this land is called Portugal _and_ Lusitania.  There was a tribe called the Lusitani, who lived north of the Tagus before the Romans went to Lisbon.”

Someone had managed to distract him with a disingenuous question, Ramage realized; talking about history, his favourite subject.  

“The Roman troops,” Orsini went on, “believed that the Tagus was the River of Forgetfulness in the Underworld.  They were afraid that if they crossed the Lethe, they would forget who they were." 

“That’s Italians for you,” Dawlish piped up. 

Orsini didn’t answer; just whipped his arm out against Dawlish’s ear in a sharp smack.  “Ow!” 

“ _That’s_ Italians for you!” Orsini said.  "So to prove that they were not in the Underworld, the Roman commander crossed the river alone, and to prove he could still remember who he was, he stood on the opposite bank, and called every man of the army across by name.  And the army came across the Tagus, and the battle was won, and Lusitania became a province of Rome.”

“If he could remember every man's name, it must have been a very small army,” Jackson said, thoughtfully.  “And if it was such a small army it can’t have been an important battle.” 

“It _was_ an important battle,” Orsini said. 

“Then I reckon your legionary cheated.  He went over the river with his muster-book hidden in his cloak.”

“I don’t think the Romans _had_ musterbooks.”   

“I don’t think that’s a true story, sir, begging your pardon.” 

“It doesn’t matter if the story is literally true or not,” Orsini said, defensively. 

“Of course it matters if it’s true,” Jackson said.  “If it’s not true, it’s nonsense. _"_

“It doesn’t have to be _literally_ true!" Orsini insisted. "It tells us about the spirit of the times! Sometimes knowing the spirit is more useful than knowing the literal facts.”

 “Anyway,” Jackson said, “I bet I know which name the Roman general would have called first.”

“His second-in-command?” Orsini guessed.

“Nope.  His bat-man. To come over and pour him a stiff drink.  Now _that_ is the spirit of the moment.” He grinned, and doffed his straw hat to Orsini.

The midshipmen giggled. 

“Deck, there!” bawled the lookout.  “Sail ho!”

Loach cupped his palm and yelled back.  “Where away?”

“Fine on the larboard bow, sir!” 

Loach ordered the sails trimmed so that the _Dido_ came about.  Within minutes Ramage’s lieutenants were standing in a little knot on the poop, out of earshot of the seamen of the afterguard.  Loach was with them, trying to stand crabwise to everyone else so that his ruined face was hidden.   Orsini and Jackson stood a little way from them, listening, and examining the _Hibernia_ through Orsini’s telescope. 

 “Deck there!” the lookout hailed.  “Sail is a frigate!  She’s changing course to run down to us!”

That wasn’t a lone frigate out there, Ramage thought.  Her lookouts could see that the _Dido_ was a big ship of the line.  That was a frigate who knew she had a full fleet close behind her, scouting out in advance of the fleet. 

A few minutes later the frigate herself was in view, over the curvature of the earth. 

“Don’t we know that ship?” Orsini said. 

“It can’t be!” Jackson said.  “But it is!”   

Ramage took out his telescope and had a look. 

The _Calypso_ leaped into clear focus through the lens.  She still wore the yellow strake that she had been given before Trafalgar, to mark her out as one of Nelson’s fleet.  She had the same figurehead, too – the one the Antigua dockyard gave her after chopping out the intolerable carving of the privateer Robert Surcouf. 

“ _Calypso!_ ” he said aloud, grinning.  “It’s our old _Calypso!”_  

“Who has her now?” he heard Kenton ask. 

“Captain Lacey,” Ramage said, without looking around. 

Lacey had written to tell him when he had been given the _Calypso._   Lacey had been with Ramage in the _Juno,_ when they had captured the _Calypso_ from the French.   Now Lacey commanded the same ship he had helped capture!  The world was sometimes pleasingly triangular!

“The _Calypso_ is here!” Kenton said to Lieutenant Martin, the third lieutenant.  “Makes you homesick, don’t it?” 

“The _Calypso’_ s _here,_ remember?” Martin said.  “ _We_ all transferred to the _Dido_.  The _Calypso_ will have new officers now.” 

“Ah, but she’ll have Lacey!” Kenton said.  “You never met Lacey, did you, Blower?” 

“I’ve not yet had the pleasure,” Martin said.   “I wasn’t in the _Juno.”_  

“You’ll like him,” Kenton said, warmly.  “The Captain got Lacey his first command.” 

“She’s running up the challenge, sir!” Midshipman Dawlish squeaked, as if surprised that a signal really did look like he had bee told. 

“Answer it!”

“Aye aye, sir!”  Dawlish and the seamen assigned to help him – and teach him – got busy, bending on the signal.  A moment later they hoisted it up to the top of the signal halyard.

The ships of the line were coming into sight now, He could see the ships of the line himself, as the _Dido_ came around the curve of land.  The small frigates were beyond them.  A  brig-sloop was far off to the south-east, coming in slowly as if closing with the fleet.  

Clearly their arrival had interrupted Smith’s daily visual inspection of the roadstead. He would have been standing inshore, just to remind the Portuguese that he was still there, and now he was tacking out again to challenge the strangers. Blockade duty involved a _lot_ of tacking in and out again.

“I can go aloft with the bring-em-near, sir,” Jackson offered, his hand to the brim of his usual straw hat.  “I remember Lisbon well.”

“No,” Ramage said.  “You’re my clerk.  Your place is on the quarterdeck.”   He had not gone through the little charade of promoting Jackson only to have him rushing aloft at the first opportunity!

“Sir, I remember Lisbon well.  I can –.” 

 “I said no!” Ramage barked.  “Mr Bennett!  Aloft, with a telescope!”

“Aye aye, sir!”  Bennett sprang to the rail, and went up the ratlines with the speed of a trapeze artist. 

Ramage glared at Jackson, daring him to argue, and Jackson thought better of it.  His  expression was confused, but even he didn’t dare argue with the captain on the quarterdeck. 

The news had spread through the ship quickly, and Ramage’s men were coming up from the hatches and moving to the bulwarks to have a look at the strangers.  A moment later, he saw the two men polishing the ship’s bell abandon their work to join them. In a few minutes, the _Dido_ would be greeting strangers with half of the crew hanging over the bulwarks like Brighton day-trippers!

“You men!” Ramage yelled forward.  “Get off the rail!  You’ll have _months_ to look at them!  Mr Kenton, we will beat to quarters!”

“Aye aye, sir!  _All hands!_ We will beat to quarters!”  

The _Dido_ ’s drum – the same one Ramage’s men had taken from the French, all those years ago – hammered out the call, and the men began to dash this way and that, readying for battle.  The strange sails might be British – but they might not.  The Russian fleet was also in these waters somewhere.  It would be foolhardy to gallop unarmed into the embrace of strangers. 

As the _Dido_ sailed on, the river mouth opened to their left.  The squadron was standing out from the land to meet them.  They were clearly line-of-battle ships, their sails a deep tan colour from the weather, sailing in line ahead.  The Union Jack fluttered at their sterns.  The foremost ship had an admiral’s flag flying.  She was huge, large even for a three-decker. 

Ramage raised his telescope, until the lens captured the rigging of the three-decker.  “That’s the _Hibernia_ _._ 110 guns,” he said.  “Anyone know who has her, now?” 

Hill spoke up.  “Captain Aloysius Croucher, sir.” 

The hairs stood up all along the back of Ramage’s neck. 

Croucher, _here?_  

“I thought John Conn had her!” someone said.

“Croucher has her now.” 

Ramage snapped the telescope closed again, and turned on his heel.  His officers were all watching him closely.  He realized with a little lurch in his stomach that he was afraid.  His muscles were clenched, as if the masthead lookout had hailed that there were breakers dead ahead. He was going to have to fight for his life, and it had come as an ugly shock. 

Captain Aloysius Croucher, known as the Rake, had made his name after the hurricane of 1797 – the same hurricane that sank Ramage’s _Triton._ Ramage had heard officers saying that Croucher’s seamanship, in his long grim battle to keep the _Lion_ afloat, was on a par with Captain Rieu’s battle to save the _Guardian_ after hitting an iceberg in the Southern Ocean.  The hurricane had made him famous in the Navy, and acknowledged as a seaman and  navigator in the same league as Cook or Flinders. 

But to Ramage, Croucher was an enemy and nothing more.  Croucher was part of the feud that had started decades ago against Ramage’s father.  Twice, Croucher had court-martialled Ramage on trumped-up charges.  Twice, Croucher had made it clear that he wanted Ramage dead.  And here was Croucher, in command of the 110-gun _Hibernia_.  He had Ramage exactly where he wanted him. 

“Are we going to sail all the way there, only to tack all the way out again?”  Hill asked.  “Surely we could just wait out here for them to come to us?”

“Not with Admiral Sir Sidney Smith in command,” Southwick said, and gave a disapproving sniff.  “He’s a stickler for the right and proper.” 

"Welcome to blockade duty," Loach sighed.

The range closed, slowly.  The squadron tacked, and now it was coming back to meet the _Dido._  

 “Prepare the salute,” Ramage ordered. 

“Aye aye, sir.” 

A few minutes later, a shot cracked from the Dido’s bow, and a puff of smoke.  They were now sailing within half a mile of the _Dido._  

Ramage counted the shots, timing them in his head.  _If I wasn’t a gunner I would not be here – Fire three!  Left my home and wife and all that I hold dear – Fire four!_  As the last eddy of smoke was whipped away on the last shot. 

“Hoist it,” Blake cried, and the midshipmen and his assistants began to tug at the halyard, so that the balled up signal flag raced up swiftly and smoothly.  A jerk broke the flags so that the wind carried them out. 

A minute later, signal flags ran up the _Hibernia_ _’s_ _halyards_ _._  

“The _Hibernia_ _’s_ signalling!” Dawlish yelled.  “I mean, it’s signalling, _sir_.  I mean, _she’s_ signalling, sir!  Sorry, sir.” 

“Well, read it, then!” Hill said.  

“Belay that, Dawlish,” Southwick said.  “Our number, sir!   Ships are to come under my stern, sir.”   

There could be no delay in acknowledging Croucher’s signal while Dawlish was trying to solve the mysteries of the codebook. 

“Acknowledge it,” Ramage said. 

* * *

 

It was almost two hours later that the _Hibernia_ finally signalled for the captain of the _Dido_ to go aboard.  Ramage had had enough time to shave, and dress himself in his best uniform, and gather his orders into his despatch case.  The _Dido’s_ barge was waiting for him in the water alongside.  He climbed down into the boat, and Stafford arranged a tarpaulin around him so that his uniform did not become splashed with water. 

The oars dipped and rose in neat coordination, the blades pulling the barge through the water.  The _Hibernia_ lay ahead. 

Ramage could almost feel unfriendly eyes watching him from the three-decker.  He felt another shudder run down his spine.  He was afraid, and he admitted it to himself. 

His father's old enemy, Admiral Jedediah Goddard, had tried to kill Ramage three times, and two of those attempts had involved his friend and willing pawn, Captain Croucher.  The first time had been in Corsica, just after Ramage had rescued Gianna.  An Italian aristocrat with a grudge had accused Ramage of cowardice. 

A year later, in 1797, while Ramage had been commanding the _Triton_ brig, the convoy which he was escorting had been attacked by a privateer.  The _Triton_ fought her off, saving Sidney Yorke's _Topaz_ , but after the hurricane Goddard and Croucher again accused Ramage of cowardice.  They had thought there were no surviving witnesses, since every warship but the _Lion_ had been sunk, but Sidney Yorke had been there to rescue Ramage. 

His fear was swamped by a dizzying anger.  So be it!  Twice Croucher had attacked him, but twice Ramage had survived.  And now he was not a junior lieutenant any more! He was a post-captain in his own right.  He had influence of his own now, in the Navy, and the court of the future.  If Croucher wanted to bite, Ramage would bite back! 

He gritted his teeth; rage knotted his lips tight. 

"Boat ahoy!" 

Stafford hesitated long enough for Ramage to realize that he was waiting for Jackson to reply.  “ _Dido!_ ” he bellowed. 

The _Hibernia_ was huge.  She was one of the biggest ships in the Royal Navy.  Looking up her black hull was like staring up the wall of a castle, studded with weapons.  Her yard-arms clawed at the sky over Ramage’s head.

The boat slipped neatly along the _Hibernia_ ’s black hull toward her side battens, and the bow hook latched on.  The boat slid to a stop.  The oars were raised, dripping water, and the rope ladder was just here, waiting for him.  

"Good luck, sir," Stafford whispered; reminding Ramage that he was not alone.  The whole ship knew about his history with Croucher. 

"Thank you," Ramage said.  The barge lifted to meet the _Hibernia_ ’s side, and he stepped across and climbed resolutely up.

There was a lieutenant waiting for him on the gangway.  “Mr Cullen, first lieutenant,” he greeted.  “How do you do, sir?”

“Ramage,” Ramage said.  “How do you do?”

“If you would follow me, the Admiral and Lord Strangford are in the great cabin.”

“Lord Strangford?”

“His Majesty’s ambassador in Lisbon, sir,” Cullen said. 

“I thought he was still in residence,” Ramage said. 

 “The situation has changed, sir,” Cullen said.  “We are at war with Portugal.”

Ramage followed Cullen down to the great cabin. 

The _Hibernia_ was a three-decker.  The captain lived immediately under the poop deck, as Ramage did in the two-decker _Dido._   However, unlike the _Dido,_ there was a third gundeck sandwiched between the captain’s quarters and the wardroom.  That extra deck held another suite of cabins for an admiral – or, right now, for His Majesty’s Ambassador to Portugal and his staff. 

Cullen knocked at the door, and opened it.  Ramage found himself facing a long dining table, a bigger version of his own in the Dido.  Around it were two officers he knew, one by reputation, and the other by sight. 

Croucher looked just the same, Ramage thought.  There was no doubt why the sailors, with their unerring instinct for nicknames, called this man ‘the Rake.’  Croucher was as thin as a skeletal Death on a _memento mori._   His wrists were like dry twigs where they emerged from the gold cuffs of his uniform.   His eyes were sunk deep in his skull, surrounded by dark rings, under a protruding brow like a rocky cliff.   His mouth was a thin trap, surrounded by dark stubble.  Dark eyes and dark jaws gave an overall impression of gloom, and chronic ill health. 

But it was the _other_ man who wore the Admiral’s uniform, and it was to the other that Ramage raised his hand in salute.  “Captain Ramage of the Dido, sir, reporting as ordered.” 

“Good to have you, Ramage.”

Admiral Sir Sidney Smith was a tall man, with a strong face.  He wore an expression of disbelief and criticism on his high arched eyebrows.  Ramage realized that the arched eyebrows were a permanent cast of his face, and not actually an expression of shocked outrage.  Ramage had not served with Smith before, but he was aware of Smith’s reputation. 

Smith was a fighter.  He had been promoted to captain at nineteen, which wasn’t even strictly _legal._   In 1793, during Hood's evacuation of Toulon, Smith had burn the French dockyard, under fire from Bonaparte's own guns.  In 1799, Smith withstood Bonaparte again, at the siege of Acre.  For two months, Smith and the Turkish garrison fought off repeated assaults, until Bonaparte withdrew.  Even now, Smith was the only British officer to have beaten Bonaparte in person on Bonaparte's own ground – _twice._

But Smith wasn’t Nelson.  He would never be Nelson, and for one reason only: _nobody liked him._   Smith didn't only fight with his enemies - he fought with _everyone._   He was a compulsive squabbler. 

 “You know Captain Ramage, don’t you, Rake?” Smith said to Croucher. 

“We have met on several occasions,” Croucher said, coldly, in his scratchy voice.  His eyes were not friendly. 

“We met in Corsica, and again in the West Indies,” Ramage agreed, determined not to give ground. 

Croucher and Smith knew each other?  Oh God, Ramage thought.  He had thought he only had Croucher to deal with.  Now he had Croucher, and one of the Royal Navy's most famous fighting admirals to worry about.  He was deeper in trouble than he thought. 

“Let’s get right down to business, shall we?”  Smith said.  “Captain Ramage, I assume you have been following the situation in the newspapers?”

“The last I heard, sir, Bonaparte was demanding all sorts of concessions from the Portuguese.  Threatening to invade if the Prince Regent does not submit.” 

“The situation has grown worse.  At the latest report, the Prince Regent has declared war on us.  We are formally at war with Portugal.”

Croucher sighed. 

“However,”  Smith raised one finger.  “The Prince is trying to please both us and the French.  The Portuguese have promised that the accessions to the French are but a smokescreen to keep Bonaparte satisfied.  The Prince believes that he can please both sides of the game.” 

“That’s not going to work for very long,” Ramage said. 

“This we know,” Smith agreed.  “Bonaparte is tired of waiting.  General Junot and twenty five thousand men crossed the border at Cuidad Rodrigo.  They are already in Portugal.  They will be in Lisbon in days.” 

“The Portuguese army is not fighting, sir?” Ramage asked. 

“They cannot beat the French,” Smith said.  “Even if they could, they are still garrisoned on the coast.  It would take weeks to get them out of winter quarters, and by then General Junot will be in Mafra Palace.” 

“Portugal is effectively already lost,” Croucher said. 

“And that is why we are here,” Smith said.  “The Portuguese army may well fight effectively, but we will not hold our collective breaths, shall we?  It is far more likely that they will collapse.  The House of Braganza will join the houses of Bourbon,  Naples, and Volterra in exile.” 

For the first time, as Smith said the word ‘Volterra,’ Croucher’s eyes flicked up and met Ramage’s directly.  Ramage met his gaze, resolving not to look away.  After a second, Croucher looked back to Smith. 

“Now, we’re all familiar with the Portuguese Navy.  We believe that there are approximately two dozen Portuguese warships at the mouth of the Tagus, including eight ships of the line.” 

“A nice little morsel for Bonaparte to gobble up,” Lieutenant Cullen said in an undertone. 

“The Portuguese navy cannot be allowed to fall into French hands.  Bonaparte already has the fleets of Russia, the Netherlands, Spain …” 

“But not Denmark,”  Croucher said.   

“Precisely.”  Smith’s voice was cold.  “We will help the Portuguese, or we will destroy them.”   

Ramage felt cold.  He knew – all of Europe knew – what had happened at Copenhagen, just a few months ago. 

Denmark might be neutral, but to British eyes her independence looked very vulnerable. Bonaparte was squeezing all of Europe into his Continental System, and it looked as if the Danish navy might be compelled to serve France. The Royal Navy could not allow the Danish Navy to join forces with France – not when all of Europe’s shipyards were building ships faster than the English shipyards could match them; not when the Royal Navy’s command of the sea was all that kept the United Kingdom united…

The Danish navy could not be allowed to fall into French hands, so the Royal Navy took it first. Ramage could see it in his mind’s eye; the lovely old city of Copenhagen in flames; mortars and rockets falling onto unarmed civilians. To save their city from burning, the Danes had surrendered their whole navy into British hands. 

Denmark no longer had a fleet at all. 

 “It’s a damn cold thing to do to an ally,” he said, after a moment. 

“It was a damn cold thing to do to the Danes, too,” Croucher said, “but we are in a struggle for our very lives, and it is not our place to complain that we do not like our orders. 

“The Prince Regent commands the Navy directly?” Lieutenant Cullen asked.   

“He holds absolute power,” Smith agreed.   “Last year, Admiral St Vincent came here with a squadron of ships,  and spoke to the Prince about the possibility of shifting his  whole government to South America.” 

“South America!” Mr Cullen marvelled. 

“But nothing came of it,” Smith said.  “And Lord Coutinho, the Prince’s most trusted adviser, has been in London negotiating a treaty, but nothing came of that.  Prince John has given no answers.  He will sit until he is pushed.”

“Bonaparte will push him right off his throne,” Croucher said, grimly. 

And that would be that, Ramage thought.  Bonaparte would take over Portugal.  The House of Braganza would be deposed. 

 _Bloody Bonaparte,_ he thought, in a sudden fit of anger.  First Volterra, now Portugal!  Bonaparte ruled almost all of Europe now.  How much more did the man want? At this rate, the war would never end.  Ramage would never see peace, he would never settle down with Sarah; he would fight on, and on, and on...  

“Captain Ramage, I know your reputation for haring off on your own adventures, but this time the _Dido_ is needed exactly where she is.  The Portuguese fleet will come out, or we will go in to fetch them.  I will need every gun at my disposal when that time comes.”

“Sir,” Ramage said.  “You won’t find the _Dido_ wanting in zeal when you call on her.  And I’m familiar with the Tagus.  I’ve been here before.” 

He had spent weeks at anchor in Lisbon as a prisoner in the _Lady Arabella_ , and in those weeks Southwick had managed to put his hands on a full set of pilot’s charts.

 “I’m glad to hear it.  Come,” Smith said. “I think the Ambassador should be ready to receive us now.  Let me introduce you him.”

The Admiral led the way to the great cabin, right aft. 

“My lord,” he announced, as if the gentleman sitting there had not been able to hear every word through the open glass doors.  “May I present to you Captain Lord Ramage.  Viscount Strangford, His Britannic Majesty’s ambassador to Lisbon.”

Ramage glanced at Smith, annoyed.  He did not use his title in the Service.  It caused too much awkwardness among men who were almost always his social inferiors. 

“Your servant, sir,” Ramage said, bowing politely to Strangford. 

Strangford was sitting with his back to the sternlights. He was elegantly dressed – a little too elegantly for the circumstances.  He looked pale and uncomfortable, as if his stock was tied too tight.  “Please forgive me for not getting up, I do not have my, er, sea legs.”

The cabin was well furnished, and there were more than enough chairs in the great cabin to seat themselves.  Ramage sat down, and rearranged his sword at his side. 

“You’ll be pleased to know,” Smith said to Strangford, “that Lord Ramage has the Marchesa di Volterra’s heir in the _Dido.”_

“Is that so?” Strangford asked, brightening up. 

“Yes, my lord,” Ramage said.  “Count Orsini serves in the Dido as a master’s mate.” 

“I trust we may make use of his presence, at some point,” Strangford said.  “The Portuguese are an old court.  They will be delighted to find a Di Medici in their midst – even a diluted one.”

Orsini was going to be _thrilled_ to hear he was a diluted Medici, Ramage thought.   “Yes, my lord,” he agreed.  

“Old families can speak to other old families better than the rest of us,” Lord Strangford said.  “Please tell Lord Orsini that he’s very welcome in the fleet, and I hope I will be able to entice him to dinner.” 

“I will pass your invitation to him, my lord,” Ramage said.

And _that_ , Ramage thought, was why he did not use his title in the service.  If Count Orsini had been here, Lord Strangford would have been making much ado about _him._ Social rank would have placed the master’s mate higher than the Admiral himself. 

“Perhaps you might share the present situation with Captain Ramage, my lord,” Smith said. 

“Yes,” Strangford agreed.  “Well, I will keep it brief.  Gentlemen, we are at war with Portugal.  The Prince Regent has given orders to arrest all British citizens, and confiscate all British property.  But the French are not… _ahem!_   … The French are not satisfied with the Portuguese concessions…  The French…”  Strangford stopped, to gulp like a fish.  Sweat was breaking out on his face. 

“Sir?” Croucher asked. 

“I’m all right,” Strangford said, flustered.  “The Portuguese are our oldest allies in Europe.  Our friendship goes back all the way back to 1147, after all.  I have explained to the Prince Regent, at length, that His Britannic Majesty has tolerated everything that our alliance demands him to tolerate, but there is a limit to what he can accept.  But all I’ve had from him are promises and prayers.”

“What is the Prince doing?” 

“Doing?”  Lord Strangford snapped.  “He is doing _nothing._   Prince John is a ditherer.  I said to him, the French are out _there,_ we are out _here._  Prince John has to choose, but he just sits in his monastery with his monks and … Oh _God!”_   

Lord Strangford sprang off the settee and ran to the sternlights.  He threw one open, and leaned out. 

There was an uncomfortable silence.  The naval officers all looked at each other, awkwardly, and Ramage found himself meeting Croucher’s eyes a second time.  They were all used to the sight of landsmen being sea-sick – but not to seeing the accredited Ambassador of the Court of St James vomiting through the sternlights. 

Smith shook his head with an annoyed expression.  “Captain Ramage, perhaps you had better return to your ship.” 

"Thank you, sir." 

“Ramage,” Croucher said.  “A few words with you, in the day cabin.  I would speak to you in confidence.” 

There was only one reply that he could give to a direct order.  “Aye aye, sir.” 

And here it came, Ramage thought.  He followed Croucher into the day cabin outside again.  Croucher closed the door between them and the Admiral.  He swung around to face Ramage.

 _“You,”_ Croucher said, and the dislike was open on his face.  “You are the _last_ officer I wanted to see in this fleet.” 

Ramage blinked rapidly, and then forced himself to stop.  The anger was rising in him.  Did Croucher, and men like him, not understand how petty and childish their feuding was?  Croucher's hatred for Ramage had been sparked before Ramage had even been _born._

"The feeling is entirely mutual, Croucher," Ramage gritted.

“If you think you will be able to repeat your loathsome behaviour on this commission, you are wrong.  Lord Nelson may have allowed you to get away with it, but Sir Sidney Smith won’t be _half_ as accommodating.  Any insubordination from you, and _this_ time, you _will_ get what you deserve.”

There was no reason to be polite with this man.  Croucher was already an enemy.  And they were alone.  Croucher could accuse him of anything he wanted, so Ramage might as well be as rude as he liked. 

“Why wait?” Ramage asked.  He looked directly at Croucher, meeting the lizard eyes. It was hard not to sneer.  “Why don’t you just invent a charge now?  What about buggery?  You’ve accused me of cowardice three times, surely you’d like a change?” 

“You and I have only met twice," Croucher snapped.  "Corsica and Jamaica." 

“That’s true,” Ramage said, and drew himself back up to his full height.  “It was only Goddard the third time.  Buggery, then.  Do your worst.”  

“I’ll do my worst, and you do yours,” Croucher hissed at him.  “We may have to put up with each other in Lisbon, but not a minute longer.  You can re-issue your challenge when we reach British soil.  _If_ you dare to say it to my _face_ this time!” 

Ramage blinked.  _“What_ challenge?”

 _“Your_ challenge!"  Croucher’s lips curled with his contempt. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

"You know damn well I refer to your challenge in Corsica!”   

“Are you mad?  I made no challenge in Corsica!  Or anywhere else!” 

Croucher jerked up his head, and stared at Ramage with his eyes narrowed.  Ramage was reminded of a lizard, surprised.  

“The challenge you made after the sinking of the _Sibella_ , in Lieutenant Vickery’s hearing!”

“Who the hell is Vickery?”  Ramage said, still angry.  “And I'll have you know, I have never made a challenge in my life!  Do you think I'm stupid?” 

Croucher stared at him, as if he’d never seen Ramage before.  His mouth opened and closed. 

Ramage wondered if he should break the silence, and then decided he would be damned if he spoke first.  Croucher was the one speaking in riddles - Croucher could explain himself! 

After a minute of staring at Ramage, a shudder seemed to run through Croucher’s body.  The corners of his lips turned down, and he slammed both fists down on his desk. 

“Oh, isn’t life _simple_ when the light shines on it!” he hissed, viciously.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ramage snapped back. 

"Oh, shut up, you idiot, I wasn't talking to _you!"_ Croucher stalked forward and stopped facing Ramage.

They were face-to-face now, and he could see the fever in Croucher’s sickly eyes. 

Ramage glared back at him, feeling the tremors of anger still in him.  He was too angry to trust himself with words.  He would stammer on them, and he refused to stammer in this bastard's presence.  

It was another long silent minute before Croucher spoke, in a more normal tone of voice.  “We have a great deal of water under the bridge, you and I.”

“Quite.” 

“But mark my words.  How you fare on this commission depends _entirely_ on you – nothing else.”

“I have never done anything less than my duty, sir.”

“Then you have nothing to fear, have you?”  Croucher leaned back, looking down his nose at Ramage.  “Behave like a petulant brat, on the other hand, and I will see you charged for dereliction of duty faster than you can _blink_.”

“You do your job, and I’ll do mine.  Sir.”

“Get out of my _sight,_ Ramage.”

“Only too happy to _, sir.”_

 

 

* * *

 

“This commission is going to be trouble,” Kenton said.  “Mr Ramage and the Rake together again?”

“We’re going to have to watch ourselves,” Martin said.  He glanced around, but there were no seamen in earshot of the group of officers.   They were all still on the quarterdeck, watching the _Hibernia_ _._  

“Nobody says anything to anyone from the _Hibernia_ _,”_ Kenton ordered quietly.  “Nobody gives the Rake ammunition against the Captain, you hear?” 

“Oh, the Rake’s not so bad,” Loach put in. 

“Not so bad?” Kenton asked, incredulously.  “He tried to have the Captain court-martialled!” Kenton said.  “Twice!”

“What on earth for?”

“Cowardice.”

“Cowardice?” Loach looked flummoxed.  “Him?  You’re _joking.”_

“They were trumped up charges, obviously,” Kenton said. "The Rake will stop at nothing to get at Mr Ramage.  Mr Southwick was there at the time, weren't you, Mr Southwick?"

"I was," Southwick said.  "And so was Jackson.  Twice we've met Croucher - and twice Croucher has tried to kill Mr Ramage." 

"But," Loach was frowning, _"why?"_  

"You must know about the old Goddard-Ramage feud?” Southwick asked.  "Dates all the way back to the American war?  Admiral Goddard hates Admiral Ramage's guts."

“The whole Navy knows about the Goddard-Ramage feud,” Loach said.

“Goddard and the Rake are friends.  QED.” 

“But Goddard and the Rake aren’t friends any more!” Hill said, confidently.

“No?”

“Of course not!" Hill said.  "They fell out _years_ ago – around the time the middies started bleating at Goddard.”

“I beg your pardon?” Orsini walked closer along the rail, and broke into the conversation.  “Bleating?”

Loach immediately shifted, trying to turn so that his face was sidelong to all of them at the same time.    

“Bleating. Like a goat.”  Lieutenant Hill looked at Orsini, with an eyebrow raised.  “You know what a goat is?  Goes _Meh-eh-eh-eh-eh!_ ”  He lifted his voice into a falsetto scream. 

“Of course I know what a goat is.  We have goats in Volterra!”

“I served under Goddard, for a while.  I’ve seen it.  The middies bleat at Goddard as soon as his back is turned.  Rear Admiral of the _Meh-eh-eh-eh-eh!”_   Hill said, and laughed.

“I’ve heard it myself,” Loach said.  “The midshipmen wait until it’s dark, or until there’s a lot of noise, and then… _Meh-eh-eh-eh.”_

“Why, for heaven’s sake?” Kenton asked. 

“Because of the hurricane in ‘97,” Hill said.  He looked back and forth between his shipmates.  “You _really_ haven’t heard this story?”

“I thought the whole Navy knew about it!” Loach said.  He and Hill exchanged glances. 

“Well, we know about the hurricane,” Orsini said.  “A lot of ships sank, and everyone says it was Goddard's fault." 

“You’d better tell them,” Loach said to Hill.

“A- _ppar_ -ently,” Hill said, rolling the word as if enjoying its taste, “at the worst part of the storm, Admiral Goddard panicked.  He was screaming and wailing that they were all doomed, doomed – _meh-eh-eh-eh.”_

 _“Rumour has it, in_ the end the Rake locked Goddard in the brig until they reached Antigua."

“Whoa,” Martin said.  He exchanged incredulous glances with Kenton. 

 “I have never understood how the Rake got away with it,” Loach said.  “Locking up your own admiral?  You’d think he’d have been charged.”

“I know why he got away with it!” Orsini said, hotly.  “Because the _stronzo_ decided to distract everyone by charging Mr Ramage instead.! 

 “Well, it didn’t work, because Goddard is going to hear  _meh-eh-eh-eh_ for the rest of his career,” Hill said.  "He's a coward – and the midshipmen are never going to let him forget it.”

“Does that mean the Rake isn’t Mr Ramage’s enemy any more?”  Kenton asked. 

“I don’t know,” Loach said, shrugging. 

“I don’t know why Mr Ramage wouldn’t be the Rake’s enemy!” Orsini said.  “The pig tried to hang him.  That is enough to make him _my_ enemy.  My knife would be waiting for him, waiting _just so.”_

“The barge is coming back, sir!” the lookout called. 

Kenton swung the telescope up for a look.  He picked out the captain’s cocked hat and golden epaulettes in the sternsheets. 

“Stand by the side party!” Kenton said, turning back to his duty.  “Captain’s coming aboard!” 

* * *

 

 

 Ramage stalked back into his cabin and threw his hat down on the table.  What on earth had that weird conversation been all about? 

He moved to his book-case, and opened the glass slide that held the books in place.  He took out  Steel’s Navy List.  The round robin fell out of the covers where he had hidden it, and he tucked it back, and started looking for the name he wanted. 

There was a tap at the door, and the sentry announced Bowen and Southwick both. 

“Come in!” he called, turning with his finger holding his place in the book. 

Southwick’s lined face was rumpled with concern.  “Sir?”  he asked.  “How did it – is everything all right?” 

Ramage waved them both to sit.  “It’s all right,” he said.  “Just bluster and threats  – but very strange.”

“Strange is suspicious,” Southwick said.  “I mistrust _strange._ Particularly from _that_ nasty piece of work." 

“Very strange.”  Ramage put the Navy List down on the table and started paging through it.  “Have either of you gentlemen ever heard of a Lieutenant Vickery?”

Bowen pressed one elegant finger to the bridge of his spectacles.  “First name?” 

“I don’t know,” Ramage said.  “He was in Bastia back in ’96, that’s all I know.” 

Steel’s Original and Correct List of the Royal Navy, published monthly, listed all the ships in commission and where they were stationed, as well as all the commissioned officers, masters, pursers and surgeons.  He found the lieutenant’s list, and ran his finger down the page. 

The list was in order of seniority – officers climbed the list as new juniors were commissioned under them, and left the list as they resigned, were promoted, or died.    There was no automatic promotion out of the lieutenants’ list, as there was on the captain’s list. He ran his finger along the list of names, but there was no Vickery. 

If Vickery had been a lieutenant in ‘96, then his name couldn’t be any lower than Ramage’s had been back then.  He found the cluster of names that had been around his own, and ran his finger _up_ the list again.  No Vickery. 

All right, maybe the damn man had been promoted in the meantime.  There were only six hundred or so captains – Ramage was sure he’d seen no Vickery there, but he checked the list around his own name anyway.  His own name was there – and Jack Dawlish under his, and Horatio Hornblower a few pages under Dawlish. 

He turned the pages to the very top of the list, and was shocked to find Aloysius Croucher right on the top.  Promotion from captain to admiral was by seniority only.  Croucher would get his flag very soon. 

“Sir?”

Ramage turned.  Southwick and Bowen were both staring at him.  “I have had the strangest conversation with Captain Croucher,” he said.  “He seems to think that I challenged him to a duel.”

“What?”  Southwick said.  “When?”

“Bastia,” Ramage said.  “Back in 1796.  Or rather, someone called Vickery told him I did.  But I can’t find a Vickery anywhere in the List.” 

“Maybe he died?”

“Correct me if I am wrong,” Bowen said.  “But you were a lieutenant in 1796, is that right?” 

“Yes,”  Ramage said. 

“And Captain Croucher was already a captain?” 

“And a senior one,” Ramage said, nodding.  He could already see what Bowen was getting at. 

“If you _had_ challenged him to a duel,” Bowen said, “would that not have contravened the Articles of War?”

“Article 21,” Ramage agreed.  He closed the book and sat down.   “If any officer, mariner, soldier or other person in the fleet, shall strike any of his superior officers, or draw, _or offer to draw,_ or lift up any weapon against him… It's a capital offense.  No lieutenant would be stupid enough to challenge a post-captain.  Even if I _had_ time for that sort of nonsense.” 

“I don’t understand,” Southwick said. 

“Neither do I,” Ramage said.  “The whole thing was bizarre.” 

“That’s not the only bizarre story I’ve heard today,” Southwick said. 

Ramage sat and listened to the story of HMS _Lion_ and the hurricane of 1797.   “Goddard broke down?”  he asked. 

“He panicked,” Southwick agreed.  “He was screaming.  And everyone heard him.  By the sound of it, everyone knows about the bleating.”

“I don’t understand why _we_ haven’t heard about the bleating,” Bowen said. 

“I know why,” Ramage said.  “Everyone _always_ tiptoes around the principals in a feud."   

“And you went on leave immediately after the trial, sir,” Bowen said.  “Mr Southwick went off to another ship, and I had my hands full with that yellow fever outbreak.  It was weeks until we got back together.” 

“And by then, Croucher and Goddard had left Jamaica,” Ramage said. 

“We did wonder about Croucher’s weird behaviour at the trial, sir,” Bowen said.  “He was willing to perjure himself, but he _wasn’t_ willing to make a good job of it.  Everyone could see he was lying.  Now we know why.” 

“I don’t trust him, sir,” Southwick said.  “He tried to have you hanged – _twice_ – and he didn’t succeed.  He’ll want to finish the job, if he gets the chance.” 

As Yorke had pointed out, years ago,  _Proprium humani ingenii est odisse quem laeseris._ It is part of human nature to hate whom you have harmed.  Croucher had tried to harm him.  Croucher would always hate him.   

“If he thinks he’ll get a second chance, he’s wrong,” Ramage said.   “I’m not a lieutenant any longer.  This time, I’ll give as good as I get.” 


	3. Dinner in the Calypso

For the rest of the day, the _Dido_ followed the other ships of the line, tacking  back and forth across the great bay that led toward the Tagus. 

The second day followed. 

 The third day followed, all twenty-four hours of it.    

Back and forth, back and forth.  They weren’t traveling.  They were going nowhere, but they were working hard.  The sails were trimmed; the helm was manned.  The ship’s bell chimed the time, ringing through the watches.  The pipes sent the men to dinner, to bed, to up hammocks, to breakfast, to drill. 

The one benefit of sailing in a fleet like this was ship-visiting.  Captains could visit each other for dinner and conversation, and the lieutenants seemed to do nothing but row around all day long.  Boats put out every day, carrying visitors and messages back and forth between the ships. 

Ramage dined with Captain Walker, a Scot with the charm to make friends easily and the genuine warmth to keep them.   He had the chance to catch up the news of the Navy; there were only six hundred captains in the Navy, and almost all of them knew each other.

But it was clear that the whole fleet knew about the bad blood between Ramage and the Rake.  Walker did not even mention the Hibernia by name, once, through the whole dinner.  As far as the _Dido_ was concerned, the _Hibernia_ might as well not have been there at all. 

And if the _Hibernia_ _’_ s captain still remembered that Ramage was sailing four ships astern of him, he gave no sign of it. 

Ramage could almost have pretended that Croucher was not there; _almost,_ but for the fact that he could feel Croucher's cold eyes watching him. 

 A week later, Ramage was sitting on the stern gallery, writing a new page of his long episodic letter to Sarah, when he heard a voice calling from above his head.    

“Captain, sir?” 

The hail was coming from above his head.  He leaned over the rail, and looked up.  Loach was looking down at him over the taffrail. 

“What is it?”

“The _Calypso_ ’s signalling, sir.  2209, sir, will you dine?” 

“I’ll be on deck immediately.”

Ramage collected his hat, and walked out from the overhang of the deck.  He jammed his hat onto his head, and walked out to the quarterdeck around the ship’s wheel.  He reached the deck and looked around. 

The _Calypso_ must have come out from inshore this afternoon to resupply herself from a transport, and now she was overhauling the ships of the line rapidly. She was  creaming along with the breeze on her quarter, and a bone in her teeth.  Her  signal flags were still flying from her halliards.  Lacey was waiting for an answer.  

“Afternoon, sir,” Loach said, holding out the slate.  “Captain of the _Calypso_ to Captain of the _Dido._   Your name, sir, telegraphic, and 2209.  Will you dine tonight?” 

Lacey had specified Ramage by name – spelling his name out letter by letter.  That meant he was asking Ramage alone, not Ramage along with a selection of his officers.  Lacey had invited Ramage, and only Ramage. 

It would be good to see Lacey again, Ramage thought.  And it would be interesting to see what the Calypso looked like now.  When Ramage had left the Calypso he had abandoned his battered furniture; Lacey had mentioned in writing that the dockyard had removed every stick of it. 

“Signal the _Calypso._  Captain of the _Dido_ to Captain of the _Calypso_. I accept.” 

Loach turned on his heel, and transmitted his order to the signals midshipman, who got to business with the signal flags. 

Lacey’s reply sailed up the Calypso’s halliards.  “Four bells, and the _Calypso_ will send a boat,” Loach read it off. 

“Very well, acknowledge it.” 

Ramage took a turn back and forth across the quarterdeck. 

“Sir,” Loach said.  “ _Calypso’_ s signalling again.” 

“To us?” 

“No, sir.  To the _Hibernia_ , sir.” 

Ramage crossed back to the ship’s side again, and stretched out his telescope.  The _Calypso_ was still in the same position.  She was supposed to be going back to her station in the inshore squadron but she was not.  More bright flags were reaching up to the sky.

Ramage could read the signal through his glass without even the use of the signal book.  It was identical to the first.  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Ramage burst out. 

 _“_ _Hibernia_ _’s_ replying, sir,” Loach replied. 

“I’ll bet she is!” Ramage snapped. 

Ramage watched, his eyes narrow, as the signal flags flew up the three-decker’s halliards.  Croucher accepted Lacey’s invitation.  The _Calypso_ would send a boat for him too, at the same time. 

“Bloody hell!” Ramage said, irritated.  “What is Lacey doing?” 

“What’s going on, sir?” Southwick was arriving on the quarterdeck, with Hill and Kenton close behind him. 

“I’ve been invited to dinner with Lacey,” Ramage said, irritated.  “But so has Captain Croucher.” 

“At the same time?” Southwick asked. 

“What on earth is Lacey thinking?”  Kenton said.  “The whole fleet knows you and Croucher don’t … uhm, get along.” 

“Sir?” Southwick said, looking worried.  “Are you going to go?” 

“I’ve already accepted the invitation,” Ramage said, irritated.  “I can hardly change my mind in front of the whole fleet.” 

He could come up with an excuse not to go; he could think of some dire emergency springing up that needed his presence.  But an emergency that had sprung up in these last five minutes?  Ramage’s sudden about-face would be seen, and he would look sulky and vindictive. 

Bloody Croucher!  This was a challenge, and he would meet it!  He didn’t know what was going on, but he was damned if he would hide from Croucher in front of the whole fleet. 

 

A few hours later, Ramage climbed up the side of the _Calypso_ to the squeal of pipes, and stepped out into the glare of a formal naval salute. 

Lacey saluted formally, and then bounced forward to welcome his ex-captain to his ship.  Ramage was introduced to Lacey’s officers, and then escorted down the companionway. 

It was a strange feeling to be a guest in a ship he knew so well.  The quarterdeck was familiar.  The ladder down to the great cabin was familiar.  He knew every plank of the great cabin, every pane of the sternlights.  He had only realized later that the years he’d commanded the _Calypso_ were some of the happiest of his life.  Sarah and Gianna had both lived here.  He’d plotted the attack on Sidi Razegh here; he’d met Sarah here.  He’d planned his attack on the French semaphore towers here.  A French rear-admiral had once sat right there …

... Captain Croucher was sitting there now.  Ramage was reminded suddenly of an Inquisitor, patiently waiting for his next victim to be ushered into his dungeon. 

“Captain Croucher, may I present Captain Ramage, of the _Dido_ ,” said Lacey, as if they had never met before. 

Croucher stood up at Lacey’s words.  “Your servant, sir,” Croucher said, and bowed.  

“As you say, sir,” Ramage agreed, neutrally.  He bowed back. 

No-one else was joining them, Ramage realized.  One or two of Lacey’s lieutenants would have been an extra screen between Ramage and the Rake, and Ramage could have sat at the table, keeping his mouth closed.  But Lacey had invited no-one else.  Ramage could be rude to Croucher alone, but he could not bring himself to be rude in front of dear Lacey.  He would be obliged to be sociable, until he found out what was going on. 

“The … um, my cook is putting the finishing touches to what he says will be a masterpiece,” Lacey said.  “In the meantime, would anyone care for a drink?  I have acquired an excellent, um,  schnapps.” 

“Schnapps would be excellent,” Croucher asked. 

“Excellent, yes,” Ramage said.  “Thank you.” Ramage rarely drank, but he felt he needed something strong in his stomach before he could face the trial of eating dinner with the Rake.

Lacey give the order to a servant who appeared from the door to the day cabin, and the man disappeared again. 

“How is Mrs Croucher?” Lacey asked. 

“She’s very well,” Croucher said.  “How is Mrs Lacey?”

“Very well, sir.  Very well indeed.  Our little Stephen is almost two, now.” 

“That’s nice,” Croucher said. 

There was a moment of silence.

Ramage took the glass of schnapps from the tray that the servant offered, and wanted to drown himself in it.

 “Does this cabin bring back any pleasant memories, sir?” Lacey asked, turning to Ramage. 

As host, he was supposed to divide his hospitality between his guests, but Lacey was making it obvious, either due to his own awkwardness, or to theirs.  Ramage felt briefly embarrassed that he was putting Lacey to such awkwardness.  “It does,” Ramage said.  

“She’s a lovely ship, sir, a wonderful ship to sail.” 

“I’m glad you like her."

“Lies to the wind better than any ship I’ve ever sailed in, sir.” 

“She does.  I was never caught in irons in her, either, not once, in all the years I sailed her.”

“I’m enjoying every tack, sir.”  

There was another stiff silence. 

Ramage found himself staring at Croucher in despair. Croucher's dark grey gaze met Ramage’s, and then looked away.  He cleared his throat. “Ha-h’m!  Ha- _ah-ah-ah_ -h’m!  Yes, quite, of course.”

The servant appeared in the doorway, and bowed.  “Sir,” the man said. 

“I believe dinner is ready,” Lacey said.  “Shall we go through?”

Ramage stood up, his schnapps in his hand.  He had acquitted himself in the preamble, he told himself; he could certainly survive the dinner itself.  He followed Croucher through into the day cabin. 

The table and chairs were new, he saw, and the sideboard was a lovely piece of mahogany.  There were three servants here, wearing the white gloves of footmen but the long tarred pigtails of sailors.  They were standing ready with the pink faces of sailors secretly  delighted by the glamour of their new duty.  They drew out the chairs around the table, and the three post-captains sat down around the head of the table.  

“Gentlemen, shall I propose the toast?”  Croucher waited a moment for their glasses to be re-filled, and then lifted his snifter.  “Gentlemen, the King.” 

“The King,” Ramage murmured, and drank. 

Lacey cleared his throat.  “Gentlemen, since it is Thursday – to a bloody war, or a sickly season.” 

Their glasses went up again.  “A bloody war, or a sickly season.”  One of the foremast jacks, clearly hearing the toast for the first time, giggled audibly. 

The soup arrived, delivered by the sailors _a la Russe_ with more enthusiasm than grace.  It was a thin, sweet fish soup, with some nearly-soft bread.  The bread, Ramage saw, had been pulled into irregular pieces, rather than offered in slices.  The cook had pulled the loaf apart to conceal any spots of mould.  Ramage was oddly cheered to see the exigencies of life at sea. 

The next course arrived.   Pieces of chicken lay marooned in a dense lake of sauce, with a large dish of rice.  _A la Russe_ again, and Ramage's heart sank when he recognised it.  Oh, God, he thought.  Curry. 

"You'll recognise this dish, I'm sure," Lacey said to Croucher. 

“You know me too well,” Croucher said.  “I’ve never met a curry I didn’t like!"

"There’s nothing quite like a good curry on a warm day," Lacey said.  "Opens the veins, I've been told." 

“I’ve heard that’s the true reason such fine cuisines are often discovered in hot climates,” Croucher said. "Really, if I could eat it every day, I would!" 

The seaman had served him more of it than Ramage really wanted.  He picked up the next brace of knife and fork with a little reluctance.  There were a few silent minutes, while they attacked the chicken.  To Ramage's palate it was like eating perfume.   

Ramage was almost surprised to see that Croucher ate a normal-sized dish.  He was packing the chicken and rice away as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.  Where on earth did he put it all?  Croucher’s tailor had done his best, but there was no disguising the fact that Nature had not been kind to Aloysius Croucher.  His bony wrists emerged from his sleeves like broomhandles.  His throat was wrapped in his black uniform neckcloth and the high starched pyramid of his collar, but even so it was more like the throat of an ostrich than a man. 

Ramage was taking a sip from his wine glass when it occurred to him that Croucher was drinking water.  Odd, that.  Who drank water at a dinner party?  Ramage himself did not like to drink to excess – his friends thought he was dreadfully abstemious – but even _he_ drank wine at the dinner table. 

“The curry’s not too hot for you, sir?” Lacey asked Ramage, as he noticed Ramage’s frown. 

“Not at all,” Ramage said, politely. 

“Korma,” Lacey said, happily.  “The happy medium.” 

“Everything depends on what your palate has become accustomed to,” Croucher said. “It's not good form to throw a real Goan curry at a fellow who has never been to India."

"It's not polite to serve a guest a meal he cannot eat.” 

"Sauerkraut," Croucher said, cryptically. 

They completed the rest of the chicken, until nothing was left but the mountain of rice, with a great crater dug into the summit. 

The curry was deceptive stuff – the softness concealed just how much one was eating until one had eaten far too much.  Ramage would have to find a discreet way to loosen the ties at the back of his breeches.  The dishes were cleared away, and the wine bottle appeared over his shoulder before he could put up his palm to prevent it.  

Croucher raised the subject of the Dardanelles campaign against the Turks, and Lacey joined in.  After a while, the conversation moved on to the rumour that one of the siege cannons used by the Turks was three hundred and fifty years old, and had been used in the Siege of Constantinople.  Ramage was able to contribute a few polite sentences about his own actions against the Barbary pirates, and then the conversation moved to the recent action against the Danes.   

“Wellesley was in command of the Army’s action, did you know that?” Croucher said to Lacey.  “You remember him from India, I’m sure.  He seems to have acquitted himself rather well.  Better than I would have expected for a sepoy general.”

“They used the new Congreve rockets at Copenhagen,” Lacey said. 

“Ah, rockets.  I would like to get my hands on a battery of _those.”_

“ _If_ you could use them without setting your own ship on fire, sir,” Lacey cautioned. 

“Oh, obviously they need a bit of fine-tuning,” Croucher said, shrugging one golden epaulette.  “The trick is not to throw the idea away without exploring it thoroughly first.  That’s the _first_ tenet of the philosophical approach.” 

“Oh, no,” Lacey said.  “Not thw philosophical approach again.”  

“Don’t mock me,” Croucher said, pointing a finger at Lacey. "Philosophy is the future!" 

“Don’t point your finger at me!” Lacey said, raising a hand in self-defence.  “Point it at Captain Ramage!  You have a virgin audience in him!"  

“I _beg_ your pardon?”  Ramage said, abruptly dragged into the conversation. 

Croucher turned to Ramage.  “Have you ever sailed with Captain Francis Beaufort?”

“No, sir.” 

“He occupies himself with hydrography.  Measuring, categorising, taking soundings, making scales for this and that.  Now, we all take note of the weather in our logs every day, do we not?”

“We do,” Lacey said.

“But all our notes account to very little that is useful.  We have hundreds of ships taking notes, but they all use wildly different values.  One man's heat-wave is another man's balmy evening.  And until you live through a hurricane, you have no idea of the _real_ power of the sea."

Ramage shuddered at the memory, and found that he could not reply.   

“That’s natural, sir," Lacey said.

“But it's not unavoidable,” Croucher said.  “Beaufort aims to devise a scale to measure the wind by unmistakable signs, so that a gale is a gale, whether it is in the Atlantic, or the Thames.  I make use of Beaufort’s scale in my commands.  I have presumed on Lacey’s good humour to do so too.” 

“I’ll pass it along to you,” Lacey promised Ramage. 

“Glad to hear it.”  Ramage would add it to the stack of books in Jackson’s cabin that he had no intention of reading. 

“But that’s just _one_ aspect of the philosophical approach!” Croucher said.  “Navigation – gunnery – seamanship – victualling!  Do you know, the steam engine in Portsmouth turns out blocks at the same rate as a hundred skilled men?  We cannot win this war, if we leave it as a cottage industry!  No, gentlemen.  The philosophical approach is the tool by which we will dominate the sea!”

“And what about a martial spirit?”  Ramage asked.  

“Ramage has a point,” Lacey said.  He refilled his glass.  “We breed our traditions into our officers from the day they come aboard.” 

“Martial spirit is _not_   tradition,” Ramage said, shaking his head at Lacey.  “Tradition stands still.  We can’t afford to stand still."

“But I refer you to what Nelson himself said,” Lacey said.  “He said that no captain can do wrong, if he can put his ship alongside the enemy.” 

“There’s more to a warship than her steering gear!" Ramage said.   

"Every man in the ship must know what to do, and strive to do it _better_ ," Croucher agreed.  _"Improve_ on tradition, all the time.  Constant refinements!" 

"Yes, _exactly,_ there we g..."  Ramage stopped himself abruptly. 

He was _agreeing_ with Croucher? 

Lacey’s first lieutenant knocked at the door.  “Apologies for the intrusion, gentlemen.  Captain, a word with you, sir?”  

“Of course," Lacey said.  "If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, there is something on the quarterdeck that demands my immediate attention.”

“Of course, captain,” Croucher said.  “Your ship is your first priority.” 

The door closed behind Lacey. 

For the second time in a week, Ramage was alone with the Rake.  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. 

And here it was, he thought.  The Rake had tricked Lacey into arranging this dinner so that he and Ramage could be left alone.  Lacey was an innocent; easily manipulated.  Croucher had planned this, and here was his moment.  This was the moment he sprang his newest attack. 

Well, he would find Ramage ready and willing.  Whatever attack he used, Ramage would attack back.  

Ramage kept his face still.  His fingers turned the wine glass, as if he was admiring the cut glass, but actually forcing his fists to relax.  He would not speak first. 

“Captain Ramage,” Croucher said.  “I’m sure it’s become a little obvious to you by now that I engineered this little tete-a-tete.” 

“Yes, sir,” Ramage said. 

“We are on neutral ground, as it were.  We’re unlikely to end up shouting at each other over Captain Lacey’s table.  We have our own personal Tilsit, as it were.” 

“Quite so, sir.”

“Because you and I share an unfortunate connection."

"Do we?"

"I refer to Admiral Goddard.”

“It could only refer to him.  We have nothing else in common.” 

There was a little silence between then.  Croucher looked at the door, as if expecting Lacey to return, and then back to Ramage. 

“I want to be absolutely clear," Croucher said.  "As far as I am concerned, your feud with Jedediah Goddard is no longer my concern.” 

“ _My_ feud with _him?_ ” Ramage said, bristling immediately.  “Goddard attacked _me._   I had no part in starting it.” 

“I don’t care.”  Croucher said, and raised his hand when Ramage inhaled sharply.  “I mean that I want no more part of it.  God knows, I do not like you, but then up until now I have had no _reason_ to like you.”

“Nor I you, sir,” Ramage snapped.  The anger was running like boiling water under his skin. 

“But hear my words, now.  You may have no expectation of me but the support due a fellow officer.”

“How _wonderful_ it must be to have _expectations_ of one’s fellow officers!” Ramage hissed, furiously, into Croucher's burning eyes.

Croucher sat forward, leaning over the table.  His eyes burned, and his voice was low.  "Listen to me, Ramage.  We may be here on blockade for a _very_ long time.  Months, even years.  We _cannot_ have the fleet divided against itself.  Morale will suffer.  Fighting efficiency will suffer.  For duty's sake, we must end this feud between us."

Croucher wanted to _duel?_    Ramage had always despised duelling, but for the first time in his life, he considered it.  A duel - yes.  He had never fought a duel before, but here was his chance.  They were both still post-captains.  For a few more months, they were equals. 

"I did nothing to start this feud," he snapped.   "But I am ready to end it, Captain Cwoucher!”  He heard the word come out all wrong, but he did not care. 

"Good," Croucher said.  “So, we are at an understanding?”

“Yes,” Ramage said, controlling his voice tightly.  Ramage picked up his wine glass.  He would throw his wine  in the Rake’s face – that was an insult that demanded a reply. 

A duel – yes.  He _wanted_ to fight this man.   He _wanted_ to fight Croucher.  He wanted to aim a pistol at his heart and pull the trigger – he wanted the shot and the smoke and the blood… He wanted to see Croucher _dead._ He raised the wine glass. _  
_

“Very well," Croucher said.  His grey eyes burned.  "So.  Captain Ramage.  Do you agree to my truce?"

“ _Twuce…?”_  

He heard the word come out all wrong, but he couldn't help it.  He was aware that he was staring at Croucher with the expression Gianna called _Accidenti-I’m-An-Owl,_ but for the life of him he could not help himself.  

"Good!" Croucher said.  He picked up his wine glass and drank deeply, tipping his head back. Ramage was treated to a horrifying glance of grey nostril-hairs.  

“There,” Croucher said, thumping the glass to the table.  “Thank God, I thought I was going to choke!” 

“What?”  Ramage blinked rapidly, trying to find his way around the cloud of schnapps. 

"A truce," Croucher said.  "Just for the duration of this commission." 

"Wait." 

“We don’t need to _like_ each other,” Croucher said.  

What had just happened?   He tried to remember exactly what he’d said.  He’d repeated Croucher’s words; Croucher had thought he was _agreeing_ with him? Ramage didn’t _want_ a truce!  He wanted to get rid of Croucher!  

“I want _satisfaction_ , God damn you!” Ramage snapped, furiously. 

“And you’ll have it.  You and I have a lot to talk about.  More than you know.  But I’m not going to give it to you, until we have …” 

There was a tap at the door. 

Ramage and Croucher both froze in mid-air.  Ramage realized that his index finger was aimed at Croucher like a spear.  He  hurriedly lowered it. 

Lacey came back in.  He took off his hat, and abandoned it on the empty end of the table.  “I’m sorry for having to leave you gentlemen all alone,” Lacey burbled, unaware that he had walked into the middle of a battle. 

“Don’t mention it,” Ramage said.  

“Quite all right,” Croucher said. 

“Shall we go to the great cabin?  Dawkins - the captain’s napkin?  Would either of you gentlemen care for a cigar?”

“No, thank you,” Croucher said, with a glance at Ramage, “but I wouldn’t refuse another glass of your schnapps.” 

“Schnapps would be excellent,” Ramage echoed. 

“Schnapps it is, then,” Lacey said.  

They went to the great cabin, where, as if by unspoken treaty, they all sat where they had sat before. 

The truce could not be genuine, Ramage thought.  Croucher could not be trusted.   Enemies, once revealed, stayed enemies.  _Proprium humani ingenii est odisse quem laeseris…_ The truce could not be genuine.  This was a trick, surely.    

After they had finished their schnapps, the party broke up. 

The _Calypso_ hove to, under the orders of Lacey’s second lieutenant, and Croucher took his leave. 

Ramage managed to bid Croucher farewell, with enough propriety that he was sure Lacey could not tell that he had been ready to kill him half an hour ago.   

Ahead of the _Hibernia_ _,_ the _Dido_ was just beginning her turn into the wind in preparation to heave-to herself.  Ramage could see Stafford bringing the barge around from where it had been towed by the _Calypso_   through dinner. 

“I have a bit of a confession to make, sir,” Lacey said, as they watched Croucher’s boat being rowed away.  “He asked me to arrange this dinner.”

“I guessed that.”

“I’m sorry to sand-bag you like that,” Lacey said, “but I was sure you would not come if you had known he would be here."  

“You know the problems between us, then," Ramage said. 

"Everyone knows, sir," Lacey said, looking embarrassed.  “It’s been dreadfully awkward for the rest of us.  He has friends in this fleet – but so have you.  And nobody wants to pick sides.”

“I'm sorry,” Ramage said, struck by the embarrassment on Lacey's face. 

“Did you manage to come to an understanding?”

Ramage looked at Lacey, and felt his suspicion fade at his earnest face.  Ramage couldn’t bring himself to fight with Croucher in front of Lacey. 

“Let’s just say I don’t know what Captain Beaufort would make of it all,” Ramage said.  "Good night, Lacey, and thank you!” 

 

 


	4. The Confiance

It was yet another quiet day on blockade.  Southwick and Bowen were playing chess, and Ramage was watching them.  Silkin was clearing their breakfast plates away from the table.   Southwick had been staring down at the chessboard.  Now he moved a chesspiece, and sat back to see what Bowen thought of it. 

Bowen said, “Ah,” and moved one of his pieces with a little click.  “Check,” he said. 

“Oh, bother,” Southwick said. 

“Your move, old friend,” Bowen said gently to Southwick. 

Southwick sighed, and shook his head.  He moved a piece. 

Bowen moved his.  “Check,” he said. 

Southwick sniffed, and shook his head.  “I _could_ move that knight, couldn’t I?”

“You _could,_ ” Bowen said. 

“Very well.”  Southwick moved the knight. 

“Thank you.  Check.  And Checkmate.” 

“Playing chess with you is like playing with a line of breakers,” Southwick complained.  “It's like trying to push down the side of a house.  You have too many knights.  I know you only have two, but it feels like there are at least six!”

“You were off your game today,” Bowen consoled his friend.  “Better luck next time.  Captain, would you care for a game?”

“Not at present, thank you,” Ramage said. 

“You haven’t become infected with whist, have you?” Bowen asked Ramage. 

“I’m worse at whist than I am at chess,” Ramage said.  “Why?”

“There’s a whist club in the gunroom,” Bowen explained.  “Jackson plays with them, after the last dog-watch.”   

“I didn’t know Jackson played whist,” Ramage said. 

“Very mysterious man, our Jackson,” Southwick said.  He closed the box of the chessmen, and leaned back.  “I’ll wager there are a lot more things we don’t know about him.” 

“You’ll get no wager from _me,_ ” Bowen said.  “I’ve heard him coaching the midshipmen.”  

“Coaching them?” Southwick said, in disbelief.  “That’s putting it mildly!  He lays down the law!” 

“He takes orders from Orsini,” Ramage pointed out.

Southwick sniffed.  “ _After_ he’s talked to Orsini in Italian and told him what orders he wants to hear.    Every time I turn around, there they are again, yakking away in Italian.”

“Not true,” Ramage said, laughing at them both.  “I speak Italian.  I would have noticed.”  

“That’s not what the ship’s company believes,” Southwick said, darkly.  “They all think he’s…” 

There was a knock at the door, and the sentry announced Midshipman Dawlish.  "Come in!" Ramage called.  

Midshipman Dawlish came in, tentatively.  He’d already learned the hard way that the great cabin was a place of sublime and terrifying power in which tiny midshipmen dared not breathe out of turn.

 “Sir,” he said.  “Mr Hill’s compliments, and he says the _Confiance_ has gone aboard the _Hibernia_ , and now they’re…”

 “What?” Ramage shouted, leaping up.  The _Confiance_ was tiny; if she collided with the massive _Hibernia_ there wouldn’t be much left of her. The three-decker would crush her like an egg.

 “Are you sure?” Southwick barked.  “Is the _Confiance_ badly damaged?  Do they need assistance?”

 Dawlish shrank away from them, his eyes wide.  “Sir – in a boat, sir!” Dawlish squeaked.  “I meant the _Confiance_ ’s captain went aboard the _Hibernia_ , sir!  To talk, sir!  Captain Yeo, sir.”

 “Holy hell!” Southwick grumbled.

 “Mr Dawlish,” Ramage said heavily, sinking back into the chair.  “There is a _considerable_ difference…”

 “I know, sir, I’m sorry, sir!” Dawlish squeaked.  “And Mr Hill says the _Hibernia_ is signalling for Mr Orsini, sir.”

“I beg your pardon?” Ramage asked. 

“I’m not making a mistake this time, sir!” Dawlish said.  “They asked for Mr Orsini by name.  They spelled it out, and all.” 

“Why on earth would the _Hibernia_ want Mr Orsini?” Bowen asked. 

“It’s not _Mr_ Orsini they want,” Ramage guessed, adding emphasis to Orsini's title.  “Come along.” 

Ramage went up to the poop deck with Southwick close by him.  Orsini was already there.  Hill must have sent for him at the same time that he’d sent Dawlish to Ramage.   Loach had popped up as well, because he would be taking over the watch from Hill in a few minutes. 

“The Hibernia asked for Orsini by name?” Ramage asked Hill. 

“Yes, sir,” Hill said.  He showed  Ramage the slate on which the signals midshipman had written down the flags as they had been hoisted, and the meanings below them.  The message read, _“O-R-S-I-N-I – To come aboard the flag – When convenient – And wait upon – Ambassador.”_

“Sir,” Orsini said, touching his hat.  “Do you think they want Mr Orsini, or Count Orsini?” 

“I don’t think Lord Strangford wants to have a chat about your noon sight, Paolo,” Ramage said.  “He’ll want the Count.” 

“ _Allora,_ I’ll go below to change,” Orsini said.  “By your leave, sir?”  He had clearly been doing something aloft because his white breeches were stained with tar, and that  salt-stained coat had been worn on a wet deck for some hours. 

“Yes,” Ramage said.  “And quickly. If an admiral says ‘when convenient,’ he really  means right now, whether it’s convenient or not.” 

Orsini took off at a jog. 

 “Pass the word for Stafford,” Ramage said to Hill.  “Muster the boat’s crew, and hoist out the gig.”

“Aye aye sir.” 

Ramage walked back and forth across the deck, watching. 

Hill steered the Dido to windward of the _Hibernia_ and then hove to, so that the boat could be lowered over the side.  Ramage watched Stafford mustering the boat’s crew, and hoisting out the boat.  Stafford was doing well at his job, so far.  He stood on the railing with his arms outstretched and his eyes on the boat,  directing the men on the tackles so that they lowered the boat on an even keel.  If bow or stern reached the sea first, it would dip under the water, fill up and sink. 

“What the hell is _that?”_   Hill blurted.    

Ramage turned.  

Orsini’s was coming up the ladder to the quarterdeck.  His coat was violet, with white facings, covered with gold braid.  Gold lined his cuffs and his high collar.  A gold stripe ran down the thighs of his breeches.  He wore a large gold star pinned to his chest, and a red sash, and the sword that hung at his hip glinted with more gold.  His hat was black, with a curling red feather.  

Hill and Loach were clutching each other’s shoulders in amazement.   “What _is_ it?” Loach asked Hill. 

“I don’t know,” Hill moaned, delirious with amazement, “but it’s _beautiful!”_  

“We should catch it,” Loach said, “and have it stuffed, and mounted in the wardroom.”

Orsini made his way aft, with more swagger in his step than usual.  He propped himself up attention facing Ramage, and made an elaborate bow.  His hat swirled in a flourish that made the red feather trail.  "Captain, sir.” 

“It _talks,_ too!” Hill moaned.  

“Where the _hell_ did you get all that?”  Ramage demanded.

“It was in my sea chest, sir.  The _other_ sea chest.  I’ve had it with me since the Juno.”    There was a slight twist to the corners of his mouth that said he was enjoying their reactions. 

Ramage saw, to his horror, that in the froth of silk at Orsini’s throat was a very familiar red stone.  “Dear God.  Is that the Tear of St Christina?”  he asked. 

“Of course.” 

The Tear was a ruby the size of a starling’s egg, mounted on a silver and gold broach.  The ruby had been taken off an janissary’s corpse after the Battle of Lepanto by an early Marchese di Volterra - who shouldn’t even have been there in the first place, but who, typically for a Volterrani, was both too lost and too bloodthirsty to go home.  Since then, it had been passed down as the property of the Lord Nominee; the invested heir to the throne of Volterra. 

“You can’t go to the _Hibernia_ looking like that!”  Hill said. 

“The Admiral asked for me by name, sir,” Orsini said.  “He doesn’t need a master’s mate.  I have my other uniform in that bag, if Sir Sidney doesn’t like it,” Orsini pointed to Rossi, who had trailed after him, grinning. 

“You should have gone in your British uniform,” Ramage said, “and changed in the _Hibernia.”_

“I could have, sir,” Orsini said.  “I _could_ have – but I wanted to see what impression I made first.”  The little twitch at the corner of his mouth broke free into a grin. 

“You can say that again,” Ramage said.  “Mr Hill, a quick change of plans.  I’m going to the Hibernia.  I can't live without seeing the look on Smith's face when he sees _that_.” 

* * *

 

Ramage climbed the man-ropes up the _Hibernia_ ’s side.  He reached the deck, in the midst of the scream of the side-boys, and found Croucher himself waiting for him. 

“Captain Ramage, welcome back.  Did you bring – _what the hell is that?”_  

Croucher’s eyes had gone over Ramage’s shoulder.  Ramage coughed, and covered his nose and mouth to hide his expression.

The vision of violet and gold swept off his hat, with a flourish that would not have been out of place in a Renaissance court, and bowed deeply.  He announced himself in ringing tones.  

“I have the honour to be Count Paolo Luigi Alessandro Casimiro Orsini di Volterra, Lord Nominee of Volterra, Baron di Burano, Knight Commander of the Royal Order of St Januarius.  At your service.” 

“Dear God!”  Croucher said.  Croucher’s bushy grey brows were twitching up and down, as if he couldn’t between outrage or astonishment.  “What a piece of work is a hippopotamus!” 

“You signalled for the Count, sir,” Ramage said.  “I present the Count.” 

“I have my British uniform in that bag, _signore_ ,” Orsini said, pointing with his hat toward Rossi, who was smirking.  “I can turn back into a master’s mate in five minutes.” 

“Not a chance!” Croucher said.  His eyebrows settled on a look of mischief.  “Lord Strangford is going to _love_ you.  Come along.” 

Ramage met Orsini’s eye, as he followed Croucher to the Admiral’s cabin.  “The Order of St Januarius?”  he asked, in Italian.

“The King of Naples knighted me,” Orsini said, “on account of walking out of occupied Tuscany all by myself.  He’s a distant cousin on my mother’s side.” 

They were announced at the cabin door by a sentry, and Croucher went in. Ramage followed.  Strangford and Sir Sidney were sitting around the table, and looked up.  Ramage got to enjoy the reaction to the Volterrani uniform for a _third_ time. 

“Good God,” Smith said.  His eyes went wide and his eyebrows went even higher into genuine incredulity. 

 “Lord Strangford, I have the honour to present…”  Croucher gestured to Orsini. 

“Count Paolo Luigi Alessandro Casimiro Orsini di Volterra,” Orsini said, seeming to enjoy the ringing vowels of his own name, “Lord Nominee of Volterra, Baron di Burano, Knight Commander of the Royal Order of St Januarius.” 

Orsini bowed, and the hat and its feather trailed in the air in another flourish.  

Lord Strangford stood, and bowed.  “My lord,” he said. 

“What the blazes are you wearing?” Sir Sidney demanded, flummoxed.  “Ramage!  I thought you said he was a master’s mate!” 

“I am a master's mate.  This is my other uniform, Sir Sidney.  I _can_ change back.”

“You’re damn right you’ll change back!” Smith roared.  “Immediately, sir!” 

“No, no, don’t do that!” Strangford interrupted, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the Admiral’s irritated eyes flashed toward him instead of Orsini.  “The Portuguese will _love_ him!  The more gold lace he has, the better!  And you’re Catholic, aren’t you, my lord?”

“The Order of St Januarius is limited to Catholics,” Orsini agreed.  

“Even better!  You’re most welcome aboard the _Hibernia,_ my lord.  Will you have a seat?  And you too, Ramage, of course.”  

Ramage sat down next to Orsini.  He had an idea that he had suddenly become invisible.  Count Orsini, Lord Nominee of Volterra, diluted Medici and heir to a sovereign throne, outranked them all. 

“The situation has changed, somewhat,” Strangford said.  “A pilot boat has come out to the Confiance with a message.  The Portuguese have acceded to my request to confer with the Prince Regent, under a flag of truce.  And we do want to confer with him, most urgently.  Show them, Sir Sidney.” 

Sir Sidney coughed, and opened a newspaper that lay folded on the table.  It was printed on the shabby grey paper Ramage had come to recognise as a product of republican France. 

“Le Moniteur,” he said, “Received today from London in the _Redwing,_ dated the 13 th of November.  Bonaparte is already boasting about the deposition of the House of Braganza. 

“There’s a cheek,” Orsini murmured. 

“And this…” Strangford reached out and tapped another letter.  “Reports that the French army is a hundred miles up the Tagus.  They’re coming straight down the river.” 

“Proof, if any were still needed, my lord,” Orsini said.  

“Proof indeed,” Strangford agreed.  “I want to go ashore as soon as the Confiance will take me.  I’m going to put it to the Prince that he _must_ come with us, or sit out the rest of the war as Napoleon’s guest.  I would like you to come ashore with me, my lord, as additional assurance that British intentions to the enemies of Napoleon are honourable.  The same thing which happened to Volterra in ’96 is now happening to Portugal.” 

Orsini drew in a breath.  He pursed the full Caravaggio lips, and nodded.   “I will come with you, gladly.” 

Ramage found himself rubbing the scar above his brow.  Gianna’s nephew wanted to go ashore – with a French Army coming down the river? He had already rescued _one_ Volterrani from under the hooves of Bonaparte’s cavalry; he didn’t think he could do the trick twice.  

“Are you sure, Paolo?” he asked, in Italian. 

“I grew up in a palace with French soldiers outside every door, Uncle Nico,” Orsini replied. “What Bonaparte did to me, he would do to the Portuguese.” 

“If the French catch you, you’ll end up like the duc d’Enghien,” Ramage said in Italian, aware that the British ambassador was watching their conversation intently. 

The duc d’Enghien had been the last heir of the ancient House of Conde.  He had been abducted by French soldiers, tried on trumped-up charges, and shot in the moat of the Chateau de Vincennes.  Ramage remembered the shock of hearing the news.  At the time, Gianna had been missing in France and the death of the Duc D’Enghien had made her death seem a certainty. 

The duc d’Enghien had only been _accused_ of bearing arms against Bonaparte.  Paolo Orsini really _was_.  If Paolo fell into French hands, Bonaparte’s agents would kill him faster than a starving man killed a chicken. 

“The French could catch me at any time,” Orsini said, shrugging off the worry.  “It’s not as if I have been shy about telling them where I am.  I am going.”

Ramage could almost hear Gianna’s words in his head, when Paolo had first announced that he wanted to go to sea.  _“Nico, he_ _will always be in danger, whether from a cannonball or an assassin’s knife…”_

“It’s your decision, my boy,” Ramage said. 

Orsini nodded his head.  Ramage could see the determined expression on his face, and felt a surge of pride filling his heart.  If only Gianna could see her nephew now! 

Orsini looked at Strangford, and spoke in English.  “I have brought my letters of introduction, and my spare uniform.  I can go whenever it is convenient for your lordship.” 

“Very well,” Strangford said.  “We’ll shift into the _Confiance_ immediately.” 

 

 


	5. Orsini goes to Lisbon

Orsini stood next to Lieutenant Smith at the _Confiance’s_ taffrail, watching the mouth of the Tagus open before the _Confiance_ ’s bow.  Overhead, the white flag flapped over the Union Jack.  

Commander Yeo walked back aft toward them.  He had dark hair and a narrow face with a dour expression.  His lips seemed permanently pulled down in disapproval, which Orsini thought made him look like a nun in a uniform. 

"Captain Yeo," Smith greeted.  "Is that little boat we see the pilot?" 

“Yes,” Yeo said.  “They’ve seen our flag of truce, and they’re coming out to get us.”

“Will you sail all the way up with us?”  Smith asked. 

“I’ll go as far up the river as they’ll let me,” Yeo said.  “I’m sure his lordship won’t like a long trip in that little boat.” 

"That he won't," Smith agreed. 

“If you’ll forgive me asking, Captain Yeo,” Orsini asked, “I’ve heard you captured the _Confiance_ yourself?”

“True,” Yeo said, nodding.  He turned the corners of his mouth up in a brief smile, and then pulled them down again.  “She was a French privateer.  I took her in a cutting out expedition, when I was first lieutenant in the _Loire_ _._ ”

“She’s a lovely ship, sir,” Orsini said. 

“I believe Captain Ramage did the same, didn't he?” Yeo asked him.  “Took the frigate _Calypso_ , and was given command of her?”

“Yes, sir,” Orsini said.  “She was called the _Surcouf_ when we took her.”

“You were with him, then?”

“I was, as it happens," Orsini smiled at the memory.  "It was my first voyage in the Navy." 

Yeo excused himself to go forward, as the Lisbon pilot boat was coming alongside.   The pilot spoke English – or the maritime version of it – so that Yeo did not have to call on Lieutenant Smith to translate.  After a few words, the pilot was standing by the wheel, giving quick helm orders to the _Confiance’_ s helmsmen, while Yeo stood at his side and watched someone else conn his ship like a fretful mother hen.  

 “We’re well within range here, if they ignore our white flag,” Orsini said to Smith. 

“That we are,” Smith agreed.  He turned, and pointed toward the land.  “From _there_ , and _there_ , and there are more guns over _there_ which will have us in a minute.”

“No French flags flying,” Orsini said. 

“Not _yet,_ ” Smith said. 

Orsini watched, as the _Confiance_ steadied on her new course, heading up the river under the pilot’s directions with confident speed.  He was a passenger in the _Confiance,_ but he itched to go over to the binnacle and see on the slate what sort of speed she was doing.  She was a lovely little ship, probably even faster than the darling _Calypso_.  

 _Confiance_ … _Calypso_ … _Surcouf ..._ There was a connection there, wasn’t there? 

“Ah,” Orsini said, in satisfaction. 

“What?”  Smith asked him, raising his brows quizzically. 

“Captain Yeo captured the _Confiance_ , and now he commands her.  Captain Ramage captured the _Calypso_ , and he commanded her - but before we took her, her name was the _Surcouf_.  And Robert Surcouf’s most famous command was …”

“The _Confiance,_ ” Smith finished.  He grinned, and Orsini grinned back at him.  “Is that significant, do you think?”   

Orsini shrugged.  “Not significant – just pleasingly triangular.  It would be an astonishing coincidence if it was the same _Confiance."_  

Smith flickered his eyebrows up and down suggestively.  “I say, if we follow enough triangles maybe we’ll end up with Robert Surcouf himself?”

“ _I_ wouldn’t turn down the reward money,” Orsini said.   There were other great privateer captains - François Aregnaudeau, the Kerguelen brothers - but Robert Surcouf was the greatest of them all.  Every English naval officer longed to catch him.  The British government was sufficiently annoyed by losing so many ships to Surcouf that they posted a reward for his capture: five million francs. 

They watched together, as Yeo anchored his little ship neatly in the river.  The river had opened up around them, tiled rooftops and trees and jetties running along the river bank. 

“Lord Orsini!  Mr Smith!” 

Orsini turned. 

Lord Strangford was making his way carefully toward them.  He was grabbing the breeches of the ship’s guns every few steps, even though the little _Confiance_ was barely moving.  Strangford looked ill.  Sweat was making his hair stick limply to his brow.

 _Mal de mer_ , Orsini realized.  The gorgeous lithe _Confiance_ disagreed with him.  Orsini had fallen in love with the sea on his very first voyage, but he knew that many people found it less pleasant.  He had also learned that Englishmen did not like talking about _mal de mer_.  They thought it gave them _una brutta figura_  – as if one could _choose_ not to be sick!  He had learned very early on that it was better to let Englishmen pretend it never happened. 

“Welcome to Lisbon, Lord Orsini.”” Strangford said.  He focused his eyes carefully on the rooftops.  

“It seems a very pretty city, milord,” Orsini said, politely.

“It is,” Strangford said.  He seemed to want to say something else, but instead merely hiccuped.  He pressed his palm across his lips.

Yeo was walking aft again.  He touched his hat to Strangford.  “My lord, there is a boat waiting to take your party ashore as soon as it is convenient.”

“It is convenient now, thank you,” Strangford said.  “Lord Orsini, shall we go?”

“Of course,” Orsini said. 

Orsini and Smith climbed down into the boat.  They waited while Strangford was lowered over the ship’s side in a boatswain’s chair like a precious egg. 

The Portuguese boatmen shoved off and rowed strongly, clearly used to the strong current of their home port.  It took a few minutes for Orsini to pick out the little knot of people standing on a quay, and a few minutes more to be sure that the boat was pulling for them across the river’s current.  "Sir," he said, touching Strangford’s elbow, and pointing.  “We have a  welcoming committee.” 

“I see them,” Strangford said.  “I do believe that roundly fellow is the port captain.” 

The boat reached the water steps, and Strangford climbed out of the boat.  The Portuguese boatmen shepherded him up the steps carefully as if they knew they might have to catch him.   Smith went up next, and Orsini followed him. 

A plump man in a velvet suit was standing at the top of the steps, already exchanging deep bows with Lord Strangford.  They exhanged polite pleasantries in Portuguese.  Orsini stood aside and listened with a bland smile pressed to his face, and discovered to his surprise that he almost, _almost_ understood Portuguese. 

It sounded just on the tip of familiarity, like a half-heard tune.  The language had elements of Italian and Spanish.  The grammar washed over him in a stream, but he could pick out enough nouns and verbs to get the gist of what Strangford and the Portuguese were saying. 

Fascinating, he thought, how so many languages had split off from Latin!  It was a proper Romance language, quite unlike the brisk quacking of English or Dutch, but with a husky quality he thought sounded almost Moorish.  Yes, Moorish.  Hadn't Portugal been part of the Caliphate of Cordoba?  Wonderful!    

Ah, he should stop day-dreaming and pay attention!  Strangford had just mentioned his name! 

Orsini bowed, just in time to not look stupid.  The plump man looked at him in some surprise, and bowed back.  He  said something to Strangford, who turned and spoke to Orsini. 

“He says you are a welcome guest of the House of Braganza, Count Orsini, and he hopes your stay will be a pleasant and memorable one.”

Orsini looked past Strangford, and bowed in return, pressing his hand to his chest.  “I thank you very warmly,” he said in Italian, hoping that his words would be intelligible. 

Strangford spoke.  “As it happens, the Prince Regent is not here.  He is at his country seat at Mafra, nearly twenty miles away.  We will require a coach, and this gentleman has offered to make his own available.  We will repair to the port captain’s office to await the harnessing of the horses.” 

“A coach,” Orsini said, gloomily.  “We'll take all day to cover twenty miles in a coach.”

“And the roads at this time of year are probably muddy,” Smith agreed.    

“ _Signore_ ,” Orsini said.  “Can you not ask this gentleman for riding horses?  Impress on him that our message is too urgent to wait for a coach?  The French are coming.” 

“I do not believe that I can ride a horse twenty miles in one day,” Strangford said, “not at my age.  And it will not be conducive to maintaining the dignity of my office, either.”

Strangford did not want to make _una brutta figura_ out of himself.  Orsini understood. 

“I did not propose that _you_ should ride, my lord,” he said quickly.  “You might send myself and Mr Smith ahead on horseback as your envoys?  And my lord Strangford can follow in the coach at a pace more suited to his station?” 

Orsini wondered if he was over-pudding the eggs, and if the ambassador would realize he was being manipulated.  Plastering Englishmen with fulsome _Salamalecco_ usually didn’t work; they got annoyed. 

But no;  Lord Strangford nodded.   “I’ll ask.”  He turned back to the port captain.  There was more discussion in Portuguese, and Strangford turned back. 

“We’re going to the Port Captain’s office,” he said.  “I managed to explain that time is of the essence.  He says he will find horses.” 

They made their way to the Port Captain’s office.  They were ushered into a sort of meeting room, and left alone. 

The room was lined with windows that gave an impressive view of the harbour.  Orsini went over to the window, and stood looking out.  In the room behind him, Lord Strangford settled down into one of the chairs.  Orsini watched Strangford’s reflection in the glass lean back and cross his legs languidly. 

“Now, we wait,” Strangford said. 

“I hope we don’t wait too long, my lord,” Smith said.  “As Count Orsini said, the French are coming.”

“The Portuguese will not be hurried,” Strangford said.  “Prince John never moves without thinking, and his government follows his lead.”

“No wonder the French are rolling them up,” Smith said.  “If there’s one thing Boney knows how to do, it’s _move._ ”   

“I’ve heard the Portuguese Court is one of the most old-fashioned in Europe, milord?” Orsini said. 

“They are,” Strangford said. 

 “They are so old-fashioned, they had a Counter-Reformation before they had a Reformation," Smith said.  "They make us look like Thomas Paine.  They even still have the Inquisition.”

“But," Strangford wagged a finger at Smith, "the Portuguese are our oldest allies.  They have stood with us as allies and friends for many centuries.”

More importantly, Orsini thought, they had been trading partners for many centuries, and a nation of merchants did not abandon friend who still made them money.  He kept this observation to himself.  That was another thing Englishmen did not like having pointed out: their obsession with their overseas trade. 

He watched a brightly painted boat making its way down the river.  It managed to look Mediterranean, without being _on_ the Mediterranean.  Was it a ferry, he wondered?  Maybe it was carrying port wine, he thought – but no, port came from Oporto, that was _why_ it was called port, wasn’t it?  A fishing boat?  But no, surely no one would cover a fishing boat with so much paint?  Odd little thing. 

And yet, that little boat's cousins had explored the world.  Portuguese explorers had set out from this place, and opened the whole world.  From here, Vasco da Gama had sailed from here to India, and opened the Orient.  Pedro Cabral had sailed from here to discover Brazil.  From here, Portuguese traders had mapped out the Indian and Atlantic Oceans, and traded as far away as China.  Once upon a time, this place had been the clearing house of all Europe. 

“Imagine the wealth that has passed under _this very window!”_ he marvelled.  “Sugar, tobacco, cotton!  Spices and ivory!  Silver, and diamonds, and more gold than _all_ the palaces in Italy!” 

“Most of the gold doesn’t stay in Portugal,” Strangford said, unimpressed.  “They use their gold to import everything they need.  The cash just bleeds out of their economy.  There’s no industry here.” 

“There must be industry in Brazil,” Orsini said, cocking his head to watch Strangford’s reflection in the window.  "To produce all that treasure." 

Strangford shook his head.  “No.  It’s a slave economy.  All slaves.”  

“You sound as if you disapprove, my lord.”  Smith sounded as if he disapproved of people who disapproved of slavery.  

“I do,” Strangford said.  “All the _energy_ has gone out of the Portuguese.  Why build anything new, if you can just buy it?  They’ve lost their vigour.  They _were_ one of the greatest powers in the world, but now, look at them!  They’re just an ear on the side of Europe now.   They had an empire in the East, and now it's all gone.  Brazil has swallowed them all up.  If you ask me, that’s why they seem so trapped in the past. Their own Golden Age strangled them.”

“Don’t tell them that, obviously!” Orsini said.    

“I think many of them already know,” Strangford said, sombrely.  “Change is coming, whether they like it or not.  The Jacobin poison will spread here, eventually.” 

“All the gold in the world can’t stop the spread of dangerous ideas,” Orsini said, thinking of Thomas Jackson and his tattered copy of _Common Sense._  

There was a sound at the door, and the port captain came in.  He spoke to Strangford, who followed him out without a word.  Smith and Orsini followed him to the yard of the port captain’s office.  A pair of glossy bay horses were hitched to a coach, and a servant stood holding the reins of two more. 

“Our horses,” Smith said. 

 _"Good_ horses, too," Orsini said, glancing at their broad faces and strong legs.  Good stout Baroque horses, not spindly English thoroughbreds.  He was going to enjoy riding those horses. 

But he could not simply jump into the saddle and gallop away, as he wished he might.  Strangford and the port captain had to exchange polite pleasantries and good wishes and blather with each other, first.    Orsini tried to keep his fingers from fiddling with his gold braid.  He’d become accustomed to the English way of doing things, he realized.  More particularly, he’d grown accustomed to Uncle Nicholas’s disdain for pomp.  Fuss, fuss, fuss – he’d forgotten how much fuss there had been in Volterra.  So much _Salamalecco!_   It was one thing from Italy that he did _not_ miss. 

Perhaps it might not be a good idea to ride through a strange city with the Tear of St Christiana on his throat?  It was quite a distinctive stone.  He unpinned it and put it into his pocket, and then did up the button so that the pin could not fall out if he fell off the horse.  

Finally the Ambassador was shown up into the coach.  Orsini collected the reins of his horse.  He checked his girth and stirrups, got his boot into the stirrup iron, and bounced on his feet – _Uno, due, e fino!_ – to get up and over.  The horse stepped forward, and he checked it with the reins.  It shook its head and settled down, recognising him as a rider who wouldn’t put up with nonsense.  Smith needed a leg-up from the servant, but he got settled, and nodded at Lord Strangford.  The driver of the coach let down his brake and snapped his whip over the horses’ harnesses, and the coach jumped into movement with a bounce of springs. 

Orsini wheeled his horse with his legs and a touch of the rein, and it pivoted neatly around his near leg.  “Very good,” he confided to it in Italian.  “You have been nicely trained, very good.”  He sent it after the coach at a trot.  It pricked his ears, and moved with a will. 

“We’ll meet again at Mafra, my lord!” Smith called from behind him, as they overtook the coach horses, and a few hoofbeats later they were off, and alone. 

There was no sense in galloping on the cobbled city streets – that was a sure way to ruin a good horse.  Orsini had time to look around at the city as they rode. 

Even in the gloomy light of a rainy winter day, he could see that here was a Mediterranean city.  The walls and tiled rooftops would glow in the summer.  There were a great many church steeples, too, some of them quite ornate, standing up among the rooftops like protective trees.  Every now and then they passed a cross street that opened like a window on the river, as if Lisbon was fascinated by her own ships. 

Lisbon even smelled like a Mediterranean city – sweat, and dung, and fruit.  He rode his horse through hawkers of fruit and fresh fish, water-sellers, donkeys and handcarts and baskets.  There were coaches and sedan chairs, and pedestrians of all kinds, and even a handful of nuns walking in a close group.  The streets were alive.  Everywhere he passed, people were going about their unhurried business.   

There were no raised voices, there were no soldiers.  No-one seemed to be in a hurry. 

“Don’t these people know they are being invaded?”  he called to Smith, appalled. 

Smith shook his head.  “It doesn’t seem they know!”

“The French will be here in days!  Days!”  Orsini said.  He stood in his stirrups to look around, and his horse took the movement as an invitation to jiggle. 

“They can’t know how close the French are,” Smith said. 

Orsini turned in his stirrups to glance out to the west.  The British ships still patrolled just out of sight of land.  The French army was coming down the river.  “Enemies to the east – enemies to the west – and they are just going on with _la dolce vita_!”  

He was forced to sit down in his saddle to steer his horse through a gaggle of girls in white frocks.  They were clearly on their way to a church ceremony.  He heard giggles as he rode past them, and heard a rebuke from the nun who was shepherding them along the street.                                                                                                 

Nuns, he marvelled!  How long had it been since he’d seen nuns?  He really was in a Catholic city again.  He turned in his saddle to look at the nun, and caught a few of the girls looking at him. 

His glance provoked further shrill giggles.  They were giggling at _him._

“I think they _like_ you!” Smith said, laughing. 

“They’re a trifle young,” Orsini said, stiffly; the first comment that entered his head.  He pressed his heels to his horse to get away from them. 

He knew he was considered good-looking, but it still perplexed him that anyone thought he was worth staring at.  People liked to stare at him, as if he was a piece of art, or that interesting painted boat he’d seen on the river.  It was perplexing, and quite embarrassing.   

“We go this way,” Smith said, turning down a broad avenue away from the river.  “Mafra Palace is north-north-east.”

They left the city behind them quite suddenly.  The rain came down, cold and heavy, and Orsini was soaked to the skin in a few minutes, and his horse’s hide sodden as a wet dog.  On the open roads they could push their horses faster, but they were still the only people on the road who were in any hurry.  They passed wagons and mule-trains going into the city.  The muddy roads carried the stream of goods and produce needed to feed and clothe and entertain a large city, but the only worry in these people’s heads seemed to be keeping out of the rain.   

Orsini had seen the fuss in England, back in ’04, when it had seemed the French were going to invade.  The English had marched and drilled feverishly on their village greens, called up militias, prepared beacons and messengers all over the country - but the Grande Armee never even dipped their boots in the Channel. 

But here, the French had _already_ invaded.  The French were almost here, and yet the Portuguese seemed to be completely blasé about their danger! 

They stopped halfway at a coaching inn, to exchange horses, and to have a bite to eat out of the rain.  Orsini let Smith do all the talking -  his command of Portuguese was more than good enough to explain who they were, and the innkeeper allowed him to hire a pair of horses with English gold. 

“You speak good Portuguese,” he said to Smith, as they drank a hurried pint of watered wine, and watched their fresh mounts being saddled. 

“I spent time here during the Peace,” Smith said. 

“Are you related to the Admiral?”

Smith lowered his cup.  “Does it matter?” 

“Not to me,” Orsini said, shrugging his shoulders. 

There were so many Smiths in the English world, he wondered that they all kept the name.  No Italian would put up with being mistaken for so many others – he would add a sobriquet, at the very least!  But the English did not seem to worry so much about their family names.  

“I suppose it wouldn’t matter to _you_ , my lord,” Smith said. 

“Not ‘my lord,’ please,” Orsini said.  “I don’t use my title in the Navy.  It makes things too awkward.  Think of the dilemma of a lady setting the dinner places at a reception – does an Admiral take precedence over a Master’s Mate, or does Count Orsini take precedence over Sir Sidney…?” 

That was the explanation Uncle Nicholas had given him, when he had first joined the _Juno_ , and it still made sense. 

“What should I call you, then?”

“Mr Orsini will do, Mr Smith.”

“As you wish, Mr Orsini,” Smith bowed ironically, and Orsini bowed back. 

They remounted on fresh horses, and galloped on, and reached the palace in the late afternoon. 

Mafra Palace was a pile. 

Orsini drew rein, and stared at it.  Yes, the English term was quite correct.  It _was_ a pile.  It was a heap, a mound, a _cake_ of architecture.  The palace was a great block, the façade pinned down at the end of each wing by a tower with an onion dome.  The wings stretching either side had three ranks of tall windows, set into walls of white and yellow.  The centre was a combination of two church towers with another round dome rising behind it, like a giddy compromise between Notre Dame and St Paul’s Cathedral.  It looked as if someone had paged through the entire repertoire of Baroque architecture – and decided to commission _all_ of it. 

“It’s impressive, isn’t it?”  Smith asked. 

“Impressive,” Orsini said, pursing his lips.  “Yes _._ I am impressed.”

“It’s one of the largest royal palaces in all Europe,” Smith said.  “There’s a whole basilica at the back, and a Franciscan monastery.  Dom Joao is as much a monk as a monarch.”  He heeled his horse into a walk, and Orsini let his horse follow at a sedate pace. 

They left their tired horses in the hands of servants, and went in through one of the side doors.  Smith presented his letters of introduction in a flurry of Portuguese, and Orsini opened his when prompted.  Orsini listened silently when Smith talked, and walked when he was beckoned, and gave his name and styles when he was asked for it.   Courtiers led to more courtiers, doors opened into antechambers, where there were more doors, and more antechambers, and more courtiers. 

Fuss, fuss, fuss, he thought. 

At length, Smith turned to him.  “We’re going to see the Prince Regent.”

“What, now?” Orsini said, surprised.  

“That was easier than I expected,” Smith said.  “I thought we’d be waiting around for days.” 

“He must have sent that boat out to the _Confiance_ himself," Orsini said. 

“Am I presentable?”  Smith asked, flicking the cuffs of his sleeves.

“You’re in full-dress uniform,” Orsini said.  “Dress uniform is always correct.” 

“Is it?”

“Yes – even if it is a bit damp!”   

Smith’s eyes ranged rapidly over Orsini’s glorious gold lace.  “Your neckcloth is a bit…” Smith reached out.  Orsini let him tug it straight. 

“One more thing,” Orsini said.  He reached into his pocket for the Tear of St Christina, and pinned it on. 

“Is that significant?” Smith asked.

“Yes,” Orsini said, not willing to go into the gory history of the stone.  “Are you familiar with royal protocol?” 

“In theory.” 

“In that case, you do the talking about the Navy,” Orsini said.  “Leave the diplomacy to me.” 

“You don’t speak Portuguese.” 

“Everyone who is anyone speaks French,” Orsini said, shrugging.  “Ah. They’re calling us.  _Andiamo_ , we go.” 

They followed their guide under high ceilings, and on marble floors polished like glass.  The layers of the palace were peeling open before them one at a time like a Chinese puzzle.  They walked through ornate rooms, and under magnificent ceilings.  At last, after what seemed like miles of antechambers, the final set of doors opened for them like flower petals. 

Orsini found himself entering a long room, under an overpowering ceiling. 

At the far end of the room was a man, sitting in a chair.   

There were other people in the ornate room.  They stood clustered around the man in the chair as if they had been arranged by a stage director, but Orsini ignored them all.  They didn't matter.  Orsini had come only to see the man in the chair. 

He stopped, struck. 

Everything in the last month revolved around this one man.  All the diplomatic manouevres and scheming of the last month - all the effort of manning and maintaining the blockade - all the French soldiers struggling down the river - _all of it_ was centred on this one man. It all swirled in a vortex over the head of one man, waiting for him to make his decision - and here he was. 

Dom Joao; Prince Regent for his mad mother; absolute ruler of the Portuguese Empire. 

Orsini began to tremble in his wet clothes.  His nerves seemed to vibrate with a fizzing that he was almost certain was invisible - almost.   Dom Joao was not his first monarch; this was not his first presentation at a royal court.  He had been presented in Naples, and in London  – but none of _those_ presentations had been so important.  If he made a faux pas in front of George III, or Ferdinand of Naples, no-one would have gone to war …

Orsini heard his name and all his titles being announced, followed by Smith’s. He stepped forward at the correct moment, and crossed the long carpet with the proper timing he had learned at the Neapolitan court.  His footsteps were muffled on the thick carpet.  He set each boot down squarely so that the tremor in his knees was hidden.  Smith kept pace with him to his left. 

He reached the correct distance from the throne, and bowed low.  As he came to his full height, he got a chance to have a good look at the Prince Regent. 

 _Ye gods!_  

Dom Joao had deep round jowls, and a hanging lower lip.  His chin vanished into the folds of flab of his throat. His eyes were rheumy.  The combination of all his features meant that his mouth sagged open slackly, as if remembering to close his mouth was too much effort.  He was the ugliest aristocrat Orsini had ever seen in his life.

And _he’d_ thought Ferdinand of Naples was ugly!  _Ye gods!_   Orsini wanted to cross himself, and thank the Madonna _he_ had avoided any Braganza ancestors!  Diluted Medici, indeed! 

The Prince spoke to Smith, and Smith replied.  Orsini caught, quite clearly, “A letter from the British Admiral, Sir Sidney Smith.” 

A letter?  Orsini pricked up his ears.  A letter, directly from the Admiral to the Prince Regent?  Did the Ambassador know about that letter?  

Smith held out his papers, and the Prince made a ‘come here’ gesture.  A courtier appeared at Smith’s side.  He took the letters from Smith’s hand, and carried the papers to the Prince as if the Englishman’s touch would contaminate His Highness.  Orsini hoped that Le Moniteur was right on the top. 

It could not have been.  Dom Joao opened the wedge of papers.  He glanced at the top, but simply closed the papers again, and spoke to Smith. Orsini heard a few words that he recognised.   _Junot… Castelo Branco… blockade … Commander in Chief… Admiralty…_ Smith spoke.  The Prince nodded.  Whatever he was hearing, he did not seem delighted.  

Orsini allowed the flow of conversation to go over his head, and simply stared at the Prince Regent.   “Lord Orsini,” the Prince said, in French.  “What is the heir to the Alabaster Throne doing in Our city?” 

Orsini jumped at being addressed directly.  He realized that he had been staring at that hanging lip, waiting for a droplet of saliva to appear.  Dom Joao knew who he was? 

“Your Highness,” he replied, in French.  “I am here on behalf of my aunt, to vouchsafe for the good faith of His Britannic Majesty.” 

“Continue,” the Prince said. 

“Volterra is a tiny kingdom, not at all a _great power_ like Portugal,”  he made a small bow, “but His Britannic Majesty has treated us with honour and friendship, as he does every enemy of the Corsican.  Bonaparte is your enemy but King George is your friend, as he is ours.  He has helped Volterra.  He will gladly help you, too, if you allow him to.”

Dom Joao looked at him for a moment, and Orsini wondered if he had gone too far.  Too much _Salamalecco?_   He hadn’t used flowery court language for years.  It sounded stilted to his own ears, like an unfamiliar musical instrument.

“ _You_ are where His Britannic Majesty would have _Us,_ ” the Prince said. 

He couldn’t directly contradict the Prince Regent.  He bowed.   

“Your Highness is correct,” he said.  “I have made myself into a sword, and placed myself into the hand I thought most likely to strike at the Corsican’s heart.  The Royal Navy grants me that hand.” 

The hanging lip twitched in what might have been a quick smile, or a spasm.  “Volterra _is_ tiny,” Dom Joao agreed.  “But famous.  The name of the Marchesa di Volterra has even reached Our ears.  The Desired Lady – is that not what the people of Tuscany call her?”

Orsini was surprised.  “They do, Your Highness,” he replied.   He had not realized that his aunt’s sobriquet was known outside Italy.  

“We will read the rest of these documents,” Dom Joao announced.  He put both hands on the armrests of the throne, and pushed himself to his feet.

There was a sussuration in the room as everyone lowered themselves in a bow.  Dom Joao stepped down off the dais, and lumbered through a door between bowing courtiers.  The heavy doors were closed. 

“Now what?” Smith murmured out of the corner of his mouth, staring at the closed door. 

“Now we wait, I suppose,” Orsini said. 

The courtiers fell apart into gossiping groups, and Orsini noticed many glances toward him and Smith.  He was very aware of his wet clothes.  His Volterrani uniform was far more ornate than any of the Portuguese wore.  The House of Braganza seemed to favour black, like monks.  Several of the courtiers actually seemed to _be_ monks, he saw.  Monks, at Court?

“Ever feel like you were the only heretic in church?” Smith asked, in a whisper.

Orsini frowned at him, and did not reply. 

They did not wait for long.  There was a bang, and a boom, and the doors opened.  Dom Joao walked in,  followed by a group of newcomers.  He sat down on his throne, and pressed his plump hand to his brow. 

“We are deceived!” he declared, in Portuguese.  “We are actually _betrayed!_ ” 

Orsini saw the masthead of Le Moniteur flash in the Prince's hand as he spoke.  He’d read it, Orsini realized.  He'd read Bonaparte’s boasting of his defeat.  Now, at last, the Prince _knew_ there was no more hope of appeasing the French. 

There was an immediate noise in the throne room, as most of the courtiers exclaimed to each other in shock. 

But Dom Joao was standing up, and he was still speaking.  He was giving orders, and the courtiers were moving.  Orsini had been told that Dom Joao never did anything in a hurry.  He had heard that the Portuguese court was indolent and immobile, but whatever orders Dom Joao was giving was poking them into a frenzy.  Orsini heard the phrase, “Junot has pressed ahead with fifteen hundred men,” and “Take care of the Queen!” and then he was jostled aside by men moving across the throne room. 

 _“Partir?”_   Orsini said, dazzled.  Smith wrapped a hand around his upper arm, and tugged him out of the way. 

“ _Partir?_   Did he mean that word as depart, leave, go away?” 

“They’re going to sea!” Smith said.  He towed Orsini away, doggedly, and Orsini followed.  “They’re going to move to Brazil!  He’s sent for the Admiral, and he’s telling them to pack everything up!”

“Everything?”

“Everything!  Everyone!  The whole court is going to Brazil!”

* * *

 The next morning, Orsini found himself alone.  He wandered alone through the palace, drifting through the great maze of marble. He walked through room after room of glorious art.  He was entirely ignored by the workmen around him, who were in a frenzy of packing.    

It was an odd feeling.  All around them, they were packing up their palace as fast as they could.  He might have been a ghost – unable to make himself heard by the people around him.  The Portuguese shouted at each other around him, but their shouts did not penetrate his bubble of invisibility.  Their catastrophe was not his.  Their drama was not his.  He wandered alone in their midst, a ghost, and drank the sights of a palace that was being dismantled in front of his eyes. 

A chance draught brought him the scent of frankincense, and for a moment he was _home._ For a moment he could see Volterra in front of him, in a pang of homesickness so sharp his eyes watered.  Volterra was behind him, just out of sight!  If he just turned a little, just looked behind him, he would _see it!_

He had not felt such sharp pangs walking in Tuscany herself, but his memories of Volterra were not of vineyards and olive trees.  He had been raised in marble halls, and great churches veiled in frankincense.  He had more in common with the Prince Regent than with any Tuscan farmer. He had been born to power; bred to rule.   He was thousands of miles away from Volterra itself, and yet in the palace he could feel the cold weight of the Alabaster Throne, as if it was just in the next room, waiting for him.  He could feel the loneliness of marble, closing in around him ... 

He shuddered.  He was being - what was Mr Southwick's expression?  He was being a 'silly goose.'  He was tired, that was all. 

It had been a long night, for everyone. 

At midnight, the Portuguese admiral had arrived.  He was ordered to get his whole fleet ready for sea immediately – yes, the whole fleet, and every ship capable of reaching Brazil – and he had left wearing an expression of dismay.  Some time after that, Lord Strangford arrived as well.  He was ushered directly into the royal apartments to speak with the Prince, and Orsini ended up being sucked along in his train.  He had found a quiet place in the back of the room, and listened to a long, long discussion in Portuguese.  It seemed to him, listening, that Prince Regent was agreeing to every condition the British asked, as if this was only the end of a negotiation that had reached its climax elsewhere.  He was left feeling uneasy, wondering what secrets had been exchanged out of sight, out of hearing?  

Aunt Gianna would know, he thought.  Aunt Gianna knew all about politics, and diplomacy, and artful lies.  Paolo Orsini knew only about ships.

By the time they had been escorted to an empty guest bedroom, there had been very few hours of night left, and not much time to sleep.  Next morning, he rose alone, finding that Smith and Strangford had already left.  He ate a quick breakfast from their leftover dinner, dressed himself, and set off to find them. 

Easier said than done.  The palace was a maze, and he did not speak the language.  He could navigate his way across the oceans, he thought to himself, but here in the palace he was soon turned around, and in minutes he was hopelessly lost. 

No matter.  He walked.  He paced silently along elaborate carpets that stretched far ahead and astern of him, absorbing his footsteps.  He walked alone, looking up at portraits, touching marble here and there, glancing through windows, and passing on, alone.  He was a ghost, adrift in the world.

He turned through a door into a magnificent library.  Elaborate balconies framing the upper bookcases.  The floor stretched away before him, elaborate and symmetrical and cold.  The air was still.  These books looked as if they were never read. This was a library for display only. 

He shook his head.  _He_ preferred _his_ library in Volterra.  _His_ library had deep armchairs where a lonely boy could curl up for hours with Johnson's _Pyrates_ , or _Robinson Crusoe._    _His_ library had long glass doors, where drifts of dead leaves would pile up, and whirl inside if you opened them on a windy day.  _His_ library had a cat.  There had been a Caravaggio in _his_ library, his favourite painting in all the world.  _His_ library had been better... 

Mind you, Orsini said to himself, _this_ library still _had_ all its books!  Everything he remembered about _his_ palace was gone.  His books were all gone, forever.  And _his_ Caravaggio was in the Louvre!

 _"Stronzo!”_ he said again, suddenly angry.  “I want my inheritance back, Nabuleone, you dirty thieving Corsican pig!”

“ _There_ you are!” he heard a voice exclaim in English. 

He turned.  Smith was coming into the library. 

“Mr Smith,” Orsini said. 

“What are _you_ so upset about?” Smith asked. 

“All this!”  He gestured to the library around him.  “I grew up in a palace.  A _palace!_   And I could take none of it with me!  _All_ my possessions are in France!  I could take with me only what I could carry!”

“I thought Lord Ramage helped you escape?”  Smith asked.  “There are etchings and all that – there’s even a song.” 

“Ah, no!  He helped my aunt escape.  And the House of Braganza has a fleet to help them escape!  Not me!  I had to walk out of Italy!" 

His tutor had walked with him until his old knees could go no further, and then Orsini had walked alone under the pines with no company but fear and birdsong.  But it turned out that a boy could easily go where a whole army could not.  He walked alone, until he had walked completely out of Bonaparte’s Italy and into Naples. 

And in Naples he had sailed to England in an English ship, and that had made him decide to join the English Navy, and that had been a _very_ good decision! 

Count Orsini had been a lonely boy in a library.  Master’s Mate Orsini was living the life that Count Orsini had only dreamed about.  Master’s Mate Orsini went on adventures, and had friends, and those were finer treasures than any Caravaggio!  No; he would not _want_ his library back, even if he got the chance.  He was Count Orsini no longer.  He had drawn a selkie skin over himself, and run away to sea.  He was Master's Mate Orsini.  The palace was his past; frankincense or not. 

He turned away from the library, firmly.  "I was looking for you." 

“I was looking for you too,” Smith said.  “The Prince desires the pleasure of your company.”

“ _My_ company?” 

 “He wants you to hear Mass with him.”

“Really?” 

Smith began to walk, and Orsini followed.  “We didn’t feel we should say ay or nay on your behalf, but Lord Strangford says it would be as well to indulge His Highness in the little things, considering the impositions we’re _already_ placing upon him.” 

 “Of course I will,” Orsini said.  “Particularly if I can make confession first.”

“Confession?”  Smith asked, astonished.  "You're Catholic?" 

“Of course I am Catholic.” 

“Ah,” Smith said.  “It’s your own business, I’m sure.”  He cleared his throat, awkwardly.  “Anyway, the Prince certainly seems to like you.”

“Yes.  If I’m separated from Lord Strangford, I will try to stay with him.  Where he goes, I’ll go.” 

“He’s going where we’re all going,” Smith said. “Lisbon – and sooner rather than later.” 

“Then I should hurry,” Orsini said.  He ran his hands over his jaw.  With his complexion, more than a day’s beard made him look like a vagabond.   “I will need to find a priest to make confession – and wash, and shave, and I’ve a fresh shirt in my ditty bag…” 

“There’s water in the stand in Lord Strangford’s room,” Smith said.  “Although you’ll find it cold by now.”

“I’ll manage,” Orsini said.  “I will rendezvous with you later, my friend.” 

“Later, then.” 

Orsini was allowed into the monarch’s presence as soon as he reached the royal apartments.  Dom Joao was standing at the head of a table, presiding over a discussion that seemed to involve the large folios of charts that were spread over the polished table top. 

An aide walked up to the Prince, and whispered into the Prince’s ear.  Dom Joao turned, and Orsini was surprised at being spoken to immediately, rather than waiting for the Prince’s convenience.  

“Count Orsini,” the Prince said in French, and treated him to a glutinous smile that lingered a little too long. 

“Your Highness,” Orsini bowed with the most Florentine flourish he was capable of giving.

“We will be going to Lisbon this morning,” the Prince said.  “Will you sail with Us to Brazil?” 

Again, he couldn’t just say ‘no.’  “Your highness,” he bowed.  “If my ship the Dido is commanded to Brazil, it will be a pleasure to sail in company with your Highness.” 

The sagging chins wibbled up and down, as if the Prince was struggling to remember what to do with them.  “You are very glib,” he said.

“I regret I have had to learn to be, your highness,” Orsini said.  “The English had a legend, of a creature called a ‘selkie.’”  He couldn’t translate the word to French, so he used the English. 

“A selkie?” 

“A selkie is a shape-changer.  When he is at sea, he wears the shape of a seal.  When he goes ashore, he takes off his seal skin and walks as a gentleman.  When I walk on land, I am Count Orsini.  But when I go to sea, I must turn back into a sailor, and sail with my own kind.”

Dom Joao gave him another of those slight considering smiles.  Orsini had the feeling that the Prince was a more intelligent man than the sagging mouth and bulging eyes would lead him to imagine.  

“Will the Selkie agree to hear Mass with Us in the _Sala da Benção_?  Or is the Church anathema to the Selkie’s magic?” 

Sala da What?  Orsini was aware of a sudden movement behind him, and of the gaze of the men around the table suddenly fixed sharply on him.  “It would be an honour to hear Mass with your highness.”

“The pleasure will be mine, and the honour will be to God,” the Prince said, casting his eyes upward.    

“Your highness,” Orsini bowed.

The Prince looked at him for another few heartbeats, as if weighing him up, and then turned back to his table, and resumed his discussion.  Orsini had been dismissed.  He listened, taking up the motionless silence of the courtier. 

Orsini was surprised to find that again he was able to follow the  conversation.  His ear was slowly tuning to the sound of Portuguese, weaving meaning from his fluency in Spanish and Italian and Latin.  After a few minutes of careful listening, he realized _why_ he was able to follow the Prince’s words more easily than the servants.  The Prince spoke very slowly, and very deliberately.  He was listening, he realized, to the difference between Ramage’s clear enunciation, and Stafford’s rattle of  Cockney.  Ramage spoke very slowly, and so it seemed did the Prince Regent. 

The conversation seemed to turn about the question of whether the fleet should sail to Rio de Janeiro, the present capital of all the disparate provinces that made up the colonies of Brazil, or to Bahia, the place where Pedro Cabral had landed.  Bahia was meaningful; Rio de Janeiro was powerful.  The conversation went on, and on, until Orsini wondered if the mass has been cancelled. 

Eventually, though, the discussion broke up.  He tagged along, when the conversation ended and the Prince led the way to the Basilica, and then he found out for himself what the _Sala da Benção was_. 

Orsini gulped a little, astonished at the honour he had been shown.  The _Sala da Benção_ was the House of Braganza’s private gallery, where they could hear Mass in privacy.  It opened directly out over the great floor of the Basilica.  The view was magnificent; literally fit for a king. 

Orsini took his place at the back of the royal party and allowed his gaze to roam around the Basilica as the Mass started. The great vaulted roof led away from the Sala toward the sanctuary.  Six organs _– six!_   Delicate alterations between rose and white marble played with colour.  The floor, a mosaic of marble to match the floor.  Depth and colour and light, playing in space. 

Glorious.  How much did this all cost?  Could Volterra afford something similar?  The Cathedral in Volterra was all stripes inside, like a beehive; he had always found the stripes disconcertingly Moorish.  Perhaps he could build something similar to this basilica at home?   Not in the size, of course, just in the subtle colouring.  Yes, he knew exactly where he would put it… he could engage that Venetian Canova to decorate it…

 _Idiot!  Hire Canova?_ With what?  His Naval pay?  The stipend he received from the British government to Not Be French? He couldn’t afford to build a garden shed, never mind a church! 

It was as if he was becoming Count Orsini again, in his mind!  No.  Certainly not!  He did not want to be Count Orsini!  He did not want to inherit the Alabaster Throne.  The palace was his past!  He had built himself a life around ships and the sea!  He _was_ a naval officer! 

But right now the _Dido_ seemed very far away.  But she seemed like a distant memory, as if another man had done all that.  He could not remember _being_ the man who climbed to the truck of the _Dido_ ’s mainmast, out on the open sea.  His sextant was there, and his telescope, and his sword and pistols, but they seemed very far away.  The marble walls of the palace seemed to be pushing them out of his sight, dragging him back into the world of frankincense and loneliness. 

He wanted to get out; he wanted to leave the palace NOW.  He was _not_ Count Orsini any more!  He did _not_ want the Alabaster Throne!  He never, ever wanted to be trapped in a marble palace alone ever again! 

As soon as the service was over, he was going to find his uniform and put it back on!  He _needed_ it, so forcefully that he shivered through the whole of the second reading.  He recited his _Kyrie elieson_ without even thinking, as if he was talking in his sleep.  After the dismissal he mumbled his _Deo gratias_ , and ducked out so that he could get away before the royal couple.  The courtiers standing closest to the door let him pass, perhaps wondering if he needed to sprint for the heads.  He raced through the corridors, and arrived at the little apartment that had been loaned to the British party. 

The rooms were empty. 

Had they gone to the Service as well?  

It didn’t matter.  His ditty bag was there on the table.  He would travel back to the Navy wearing a Navy uniform. 

He upturned his bag onto the bed.  He stripped off, and threw on his uniform as if he was answering to the cry of ‘all hands.’  He buttoned up his shirt, and the knees and flies of his breeches, and his waistcoat.  He wrapped his black neck-cloth around his throat.  Lastly, he pulled his naval coat on, pulling it snugly over his shoulders. 

There was a tall mirror in a corner of the room, on a wrought iron stand.  It had been tilted toward the floor, probably to accommodate Smith’s height.  Orsini tilted it upward again to his own height, and stepped back to examine himself. 

Dark eyes met his gaze, over dark blue, trimmed with white piping. He stepped back, and examined himself carefully.  All he needed was a telescope under his arm, and he would be instantly anonymous on the deck of the _Dido_.  He bestowed a smile on his reflection in the dark glass, and shot his cuffs. 

“There you are, Mr Orsini,” he spoke aloud, in English.  “Now remember.  Right side of the ship is starboard; left side of the ship is port.”

The sound of his own voice pleased him; it should have sounded uncomfortable, speaking aloud in an empty room, but it did not. 

“Aft may be the most honour, but forward are the better men,” he advised the mirror.  

He let his breath out slowly.  He had made his decision.  He knew what he wanted to do; he had chosen his own course.  The palace was his past.  The sea was his future.  He had set his course and now he merely had to sail along it.  

He sat down in the chair to wait for Strangford and Smith. 

* * *

 

He was startled awake by someone else coming into the room.  It was a maid, and she looked as startled to see him as he was to see her. 

“ _Senhor,_ ” she curtseyed.

“Senhora,” he said.  He sat up, rubbing his neck.  The room was dark – the sun must have passed to the west.  How long had he been asleep?  There was no sign of Smith, or Strangford – and no sign that they had been here while he slept.  What the _hell?_   Where had they gone?  Hadn’t they been planning to go to Lisbon in the morning? 

 _“Senhor,”_ the maid said, again.  She was holding her head on one side, eyeing him.  She twirled a lock of her hair around her finger, and smiled at him.  Her teeth were very bright against her lips.  She asked him something in Portuguese in a teasing tone, but he did not understand. 

 _“Senhora?_ ” he asked.  “My friends.  _Mi amigos – donde esta?_

 “ _Dois Inglês?”_

_“Oui!  Sim!”_

She shrugged her shoulders, and stepped back to close the door of the room.  She lounged back against the door, and rattled off something in Portuguese, too fast for him to catch. 

“I don’t understand.” 

She smoothed her hand down the front of her body, and raised her eyebrows in question at him, and raised three fingers. 

Three what?  Three Englishmen?  Three o’clock?  “I don’t understand,” he said. 

She saw the look on his face, and tried again.  She ran her hand down her body, pointedly outlining her bosoms so that the fabric of her dress stretched over them, and held up three fingers again.  She repeated whatever she had suggested before, and this time he understood what she was trying to sell him.  Three coins, for her body. 

“God.  No!  _Nao!_ ”  he said.  “ _Nao, senhora!_   I need to find _dois_ _Inglês!”_

He picked up his ditty bag, and walked past her briskly.  She stepped away from the door and turned to watch him open the door, rather indignantly. 

He left her behind him and hurried down the corridor. 

The halls were still in turmoil.  There was no sign of Smith, or Strangford.  He strode through the confusion, carrying his ditty bag over his shoulder.  He attracted no more attention in this uniform than he had in the other. 

“ _Excusez-moi_ ,” he tested on a workman, holding steady a ladder.  No, that wasn’t right.  “ _Com licença!  Inglesas, onde? Dois Inglês, dois homens Inglês, onde?”_

“ _Você é Inglês_?”  Are you English? 

“ _Si_ – I mean, _Sim!_ ”

The man pointed, and rattled off a long string of Portuguese.  Orsini picked out the word _partir_.

“ _Partir?_ ” he queried.  “They left?  _Se foram, partir_?” 

“ _Sim, sim, sim!_ ” 

Had Strangford gone? Had he?  No, he could not have. 

He left the ladder, and walked on.  He went through the doors, through a long hallway, and found himself staring through a row of cloisters, with rain streaking down onto a grassy quadrangle. 

The monastery?  If _that_ was the monastery, then he needed to go back that way again.  He turned to retrace his steps.  

 _That_ man was not a workman.  Orsini hurried over to him.  “ _Signore!_ ” Orsini said.  “ _Dois homens Inglês, onde?”_

“The two Englishmen?” the man asked, in Spanish.  “The two that were here last night?  I do not know where they are now.”

“The Prince Regent?” 

“He has left already – did you not hear all the commotion?  They just drove away.  Drove away!  And what are we to do without a monarchy?  Who are we without a country?  Who is our country now that the Crown itself is fleeing?  We are abandoned!  Lost!  Lost…!” 

Orsini left the man to his constitutional crisis, and strode away. 

Where on earth were Smith and Strangford?  He could not simply walk in circles all afternoon until he found them.  He should go back to the royal apartments – perhaps a servant there could tell him where Strangford had gone. Strangford must still be here somewhere.  He would not have gone off with Orsini.  Of course not; not after making such a fuss of introducing the heir of the Desired Lady to Portugal… 

He stopped dead as the truth struck him like a cold draught. 

“Crap!”  There were times when only English would do.  “Oh, crap!  Oh, Christ on a cracker!” 

Orsini had told Smith that he would stay by the Prince Regent if they were separated!  The Englishmen would assume he was going to travel with the royal family.  The royal family assumed he was going with the Englishmen! 

He had been left behind!  The only people who knew him in all Portugal were Strangford and Smith, and they had gone!  The Prince knew him – but the Prince had gone!  He knew no-one, he knew nothing of where he was, he spoke hardly a word of the language, and he was alone! 

And the French were coming! 

French soldiers would be tramping through these rooms in days!  A lone Italian could not hide in a city where he knew no-one and could not speak the language.  He would be found by the invaders; he would be identified; he would be shot. 

He felt his knees trembling under him.   He hurried along under gold ceilings that seemed to gloat down upon his sudden panic. 

Find the royal apartments, he told himself.  Someone there will remember you!  Someone there will know how to get you to Lisbon! 

He remembered the unfriendly faces of the courtiers when he had been introduced.  Even if they remembered him, would they help him?  Or would they see him as a threat?  Would they bother to help him at all? 

He found a staircase, and raced up it, only to find his way blocked by a bucket-chain of men sending large boxes down it. " _Principe Real_ ,” he called.  “ _Principe Real, onde?  Onde?_ ” 

“ _Lisboa!_ ” the closest man said, sounding surprised. He pointed down the human bucket chain.  “ _Lisboa, sim?  Lisboa_.”  He made a pushing gesture, as if pushing Orsini along the flow of boxes. 

Whatever was in the boxes, it was going to Lisbon too…  “ _Gracias!  Grazie!  Obrigada!”_  

He turned and trotted down the steps, following the line of workmen.  They ignored him, concentrating on moving the heavy boxes from one man’s arms to the next.  The boxes to Orsini’s right seemed to move in a bobbing ribbon, up and down and up and down.  He ran down the undulating ribbon until he burst out through a set of French doors into daylight, and came to a stop on a stone terrace. 

The boxes were being stacked on the terrace, and a clump of other workmen were engaged in picking up one at a time and lumping them onto the back of a cart. 

 _“Com licença!”_ He sprang down the steps to the well-dressed man standing at the wheel of the cart giving ineffectual directions to the workmen.  The man wore a blue silk coat, and he was staring down at a ledger with a pained expression as if his pince-nez was too sharp.  “ _Com licença!  Lisboa, onde?”_

 _“Lisboa?”_ the man seemed puzzled.  He lowered his nose, to frown at Orsini between his eyebrows and the top of his wet pince-nez.  He rattled off a sentence, too quick for Orsini to catch. 

“I’m sorry.  _Não falo bem português_.”

“Are you Spanish?”  the man asked, in that language.  He pulled his spectacles off. 

“No,” Orsini said, in Spanish.  “I am an English officer!  I need to go back to my ship.  I need to get to Lisbon – I have been left behind!” 

“English?” the man asked.  “If the French find you…!”

“Are the French here?” Orsini asked, horrified. 

“Not yet.” The man pointed off to the east with his spectacles.  “They are coming.  We are leaving.  Most of the court has already left.”

“I need to find a horse!”

“You won’t find a horse here, my friend!  Every horse in Mafra has been ridden to Lisbon.  There is not a single saddle-horse left!” 

“Madonna!”  Orsini said. 

“No, no, do not despair.” The man turned away and called to the driver of the cart.  He rattled off a sentence, and Orsini clearly heard the words “ _Inglês_ ” and “ _marinha britânica.”_

 _“Sim!”_ he said, for emphasis. 

The cart’s driver leaned down and gave Orsini a long look.  He didn’t seem impressed, but he sucked his teeth thoughtfully like a Portuguese Stafford, and nodded.  He spoke to the man with the pince-nez, who turned to Orsini. 

“He is going to Lisbon .  Go with him.”

Travelling at the speed of a cart?  “That will take a long time!” Orsini said. 

“It is faster than walking, my friend.  And these boxes are going directly to the ships – you see, this … this … is the Royal Library! ”  He said the last words in a ringing tone, a declaration.  “You are in luck!  Where the court goes, the Library will go too!” 

The driver was beckoning, and Orsini hefted his ditty bag onto the driver’s seat.  “ _Grazie,_ ” he said to the man with the pince-nez. 

“ _Boa viagem!_ ”

Orsini gripped the cart’s seat and pulled himself aboard as if he was climbing the side of a boat.  The driver gave him a sideways look and cracked his whip loudly, and the horse set her hocks under her, and pressed her shoulders into her collar.  The seat jolted over the flagstones.  The man with the pince-nez had already turned away. 

“ _Grazie,_ ” Orsini said to the driver, who merely grunted. 

At least they were moving.  At least they would get to Lisbon… eventually.  Orsini wanted to take the reins and the whip out of the driver’s hands and make the mare gallop, but he restrained himself. 

When they had come up the same road, just yesterday, Orsini had remarked on how calm the roads were.  It was calm no more.  The whole court was leaving.  There were carts behind them, and carts in front of them.  The verges of the road were filled with pedestrians, and the driver steered the horse through them. The people must have noticed the stream of carts leaving the palace, and they knew now that something terrible was happening.  Portugal had woken up to the news that the monarchy was leaving.  The same thought seemed to have sprung up in every person’s mind – “Go!” 

The road was a mire of mud, churned by a hundred hooves and thousands of boots.  Every man, woman and child along the road clamoured to know what was going on, or to be taken with the fleet.  Some of them shouted at the driver; questions, fearful doubts, disbelief.  What was happening?  Where were the carts going?  Was it true?  Had the royal family left?  What was happening? 

The driver shouted as best he could, trying to explain, but after a while the endless questions and the worried faces seemed to bear down on his spirit, and he explained less and less, until he sank into silence, ignoring them all.   The horse was more energetic than her driver.  She seemed almost thrilled by the presence of so many other carriages and carts and pedestrians along the road, and moved at a lumbering trot, her hairy ears pricked up at the vehicles in front of her. 

“ _Você é o Espanhol_?” the driver asked, suddenly. 

“ _Não.  Inglês!_ ” 

 The driver did not seem convinced.  He shrugged his shoulder, and encouraged his horse with a flick of his reins. 

They arrived at the same place where Orsini had changed horses on the way to Mafra, only to find that there were no more horses to change. The driver shouted at the ostler, the ostler shouted at the driver, then more carts arrived behind them with the same demand, and there was more shouting.  The yard of the inn was a mess of shouting, and Orsini stood up on the cart’s footboard, appalled at the havoc. 

 “The French!” the driver shouted at the ostler, throwing his arm out toward the eastern horizon.  “The Library!” The arm went to the cart.  “The ships!”  The arm thrust out toward the west.  “ _Why_ do you not _understand?_ ”  Both hands clapped to the driver’s head, as if incredulous at the stupidity of ostlers. 

“There are no horses!” the ostler shouted.  Orsini caught enough of his tirade to understand that he could not simply produce more horses like a hen laying eggs.   

Of course, Orsini realized.  The inns and taverns hired out horses, counting on getting them back by travellers coming back in the opposite direction.  But no-one was coming back today.  The traffic was all one way. 

“No horses!” the ostler shouted.  “Gone!  Understand?”  He yelled at all the drivers, waving his arms.  The shouting went on, while the pressure of the crowd and the urgency of their voices rose.

He would walk, Orsini decided.  He had escaped from Bonaparte by walking out of Tuscany.  He would make a habit of it, and walk out of Portugal.  Anything was better than just sitting here on a stopped cart and waiting for Junot’s infantry to march up the road.  It was only… what, ten miles?  He had legs; he could cover ten miles. 

“Anything done twice in the army is a tradition,” he quoted Jackson. 

He jumped down off the cart into the mud, and walked out of the yard, not deigning to give his farewells because no-one would notice that he had left. 

Jackson had taught him a tune that the infantry used to cover the best distance without exhausting themselves.  A quick walk, but not too quick.  He swung out his arms and legs, trying to settle into the rhythm, but the mud made it a little harder than he had anticipated.  He had not got half a mile down the road when he heard a whistle. 

He turned to see the same blaze-faced mare coming up alongside him.  The driver was whistling through his fingers.  He made a beckoning movement, and shouted something encouraging. Orsini waited for the cart to come alongside him, and then reached up an arm and pulled himself aboard the moving cart as if stepping into a boat. 

The driver made a rude noise, and waved his free hand over his shoulder in the direction they had come.  He pointed to his horse, and made an eating gesture with his hand.  The mare had been fed, at least.  They would get to Lisbon with this horse, and to hell with ostlers. 

“Still faster than walking,” Orsini said in Spanish, and then attempted the same phrase in Portuguese. 

The driver grunted.  “ _Cavalo,_ ” he said.  He held up four fingers, and then turned his hand upside down, and air-walked with his fingers. 

“ _Sim,_ ” Orsini agreed.  “Four legs are faster than two.” 

The miles passed, the cart’s axle thumping and jerking over the ruts in the road.  They did not lose their place in the stream of traffic.  Their horse was getting tired, digging her head down with every step, but every horse along the road was tired.   And then they had to slow down.  Every horse ahead of them was walking slower and slower.  The other carts were slowing down because there was no more space, and then the road dipped downhill.  The view toward the distant Tagus opened before them. 

Orsini stood up on the back of the cart, appalled.  “ _Mio Dio,_ ” he breathed. 

The road was blocked. 

He could see the ribbon of road curving away downhill toward the rooftops of the city.  The road was crammed solid, writhing with people like an elongated riot.  He could see wagons, and horses, and people, blurring into an indistinguishable mob into the distance.  Everyone of any consequence in Lisbon seemed to be trying to get to the harbour.  Nobody was going anywhere. 

Orsini heard the driver swearing in Portuguese. 

“I need this horse,” Orsini decided.  “ _Caballo_.” He pointed at the broad back of the horse, and jumped off the seat. 

“ _Meu cavalo?_   _Não!_ ”

 _“Sim!”_   Orsini went to the horse’s head, grabbed her by the bit, and towed the reluctant beast off the road and away from the other carts.  The animal immediately dropped her head and began to wrench at the grass around her bit.  Orsini bent by her flank to unbuckle the breeching. 

“ _Não!_ ” The driver pointed toward the cart’s burden, and rattled off a sentence that included the word ‘library.’ 

 _“Marinha Britanica!”_   He didn’t know how to say ‘it’s my duty to get back to my ship’ in Portuguese – but the demands of duty weren’t something that a mere cart driver would understand anyway.  Simple men were persuaded by simple things. 

“ _Dinero_!” Orsini said. 

“ _Dinheiro?_ ”

 _“Sim!  Sim!  Cavalo!”_   He dug into his pocket, and pulled out his coin purse.  He pulled out a 20-franc Napoleon, and held one up.  “Gold!  It's counterfeit minted by the British, but you don’t need to know that.  Look.  Gold!” 

The driver looked at the road ahead, looked at Orsini’s gold, and then looked at his horse.  Orsini could see him wondering what to do – stuck on the road, no way to carry out his duty, and no way to feed the beast anyway. 

“ _Quattro!_ ”  Four fingers. 

The driver stood up on his footboard, and Orsini saw him make up his mind.  So what if he sold his horse?  Who did he have to answer to?   The royal family was leaving!  His employment was at an end anyway!  The driver swore.  He flung up both hands – ten fingers.   

Orsini held up five fingers.  The driver held up eight.  Orsini held up six fingers, and the driver thrust seven at him. 

“Done!” Orsini announced, matching the seven and nodding vigorously.  He had probably bought the most expensive carthorse in Western Europe, although he would have been prepared to pay three times as much.

The driver jumped off the seat, and hurried to the horse’s other side.  After a few moments, they had unbuckled the traces and heaved the cart’s shafts up between them so that the horse could step forward.  The horse looked naked and confused at having her harness taken off but not her bridle.  Her eyes peered at them past her blinkers.  Orsini unbuckled the left rein and threw it aside.  He tied the end of the right rein to the left bit ring. 

“Grazie,” he said to the driver. 

The driver patted the pocket where he had stuffed his gold.  “ _Boa sorte, senhor Espanhol!_ ” he said, and climbed back up onto his cart.  He sat down on his box with his arms folded, and the expression of a man who has opted out of the Apocalypse and is now just going to sit right here and watch it happen.       

Orsini gathered up the reins.  He used a wheel to clamber across the horse’s broad back.  She sidled at the strange weight of a rider, and snorted unhappily, but Orsini drummed his heels into her wide ribs and started her into a lumbering trot. 

Weaving back and forth through the blockage was much faster than driving.  The horse lumbered, now on the road, now on the verge, now taking a shortcut through a field.  

The mare had been on the road for hours, and she was tired.  Her sides were slippery with sweat, and  heaving in and out under him.  This was the sort of work that killed cavalry horses, Jackson said.  After a few hours, Orsini dismounted reluctantly, and led her to a fallow field.  He let her to graze for an hour on the end of the rein, standing and watching the road lest anyone try to take her from him by force.  He found it hard not the bite his fingers in anxiety. 

When he hauled up her head again and clambered back onto her back, he realized how sore his muscles were.  The effort of sticking to her back without the help of saddle or stirrups was sapping the strength out of his legs. 

“Not far to go now,” he reassured the mare as much as himself.  “We’re nearly there.” 

The road was chaotic, and more so the closer Orsini came to the city.  This was not an orderly evacuation.  The packing up at Mafra had been orderly, but the people outside the palace walls had known nothing about it.  The city had been taken by ugly, terrifying surprise.  Orsini steered his carthorse through them, nine-feet tall above their frightened faces.  He had to steel his heart not to weep.  This was not an evacuation, as far as these people were concerned – this was _panic._  

The road was passing into the city.  There were buildings here, now.  They were nearly in Lisbon itself. 

“ _Cavalo_ ,” he said.  “Nearly there, nearly there.”

He tried to rouse the horse to a trot, but all she managed was a few lumbering strides and then she sagged back into the heavy walk again, shaking her blinkered head in resentment.  They would walk. 

The road began to pass between buildings, and the grassy verges ended.  Orsini and his horse were forced into the centre of the traffic, compressed into the streets.  He used the mare’s body to force his way through, clapping his heels into her sides to overcome her reluctance to walk into people. 

“Marinha Britanica,” he shouted into the din of voices.  “Marinha Britanica!” 

He recognised a turning ahead – a building above the heads of the crowd.  That way!  He had passed that corner just yesterday!  That way to the dock – or at least, to the river! He did not need to steer the horse – the press of the crowd was going that way, and she was being taken where the torrent took her.  Shouting, pressing, crying, and then a bell began to toll somewhere, its notes penetrating clearly. 

No, not a church bell; a ship’s bell.  He could see the river down below, down a long canyon of houses.  That way was the river – follow the river, follow the crowds, and he would reach the Portuguese ships of war. 

The hour’s rest had not been enough to revive the horse after all.  She was trudging slowly, now, and after a while it dawned on him that not all of her lurching was due to the crowd.  She had gone dead lame, so that she moved with a diagonal hitching awkwardness.  She lurched under him. 

The horse lurched under him.  She stumbled again, as if she was about to fall. 

“ _Cavalo,_ ” Orsini said, trying to collect her with the reins, but the horse had had enough.  She stood still, and her back roached up under him, stiff with resentment.  She had had enough.  She might even be _dying_ , for all he knew.  He had never ridden a horse to death before to know the signs. 

A dead horse in the middle of the road in the middle of this press of people would be a dangerous obstacle for the crowd.  

“Not here, Cavalo!”  

He hit her with the reins, and she picked her head up, her eye rolling white with resentment.  She didn’t like that.  He hit her again, and managed to force her toward an open gate.  He ducked his head to ride under, clutching her mane for balance, and found himself in a walled garden.  There was a lawn, and a fountain under an orange tree. 

He got off the horse's slippery back, and ran his hand down her near fore leg.  Her bone and thick tendons felt hard, and not hot.  He tugged at her hairy fetlock until she got the message and lifted her huge hoof, and he found that her shoe was missing.  No wonder she had gone lame.  He let go her foot, and she planted the hoof down with a stomp. 

“Ah,” Orsini said.  “I did not even notice.  I do apologise, Cavalo.  _Allora,_ I have to leave you now. _Arrivederci._ ” 

He unbuckled her bridle and pulled it off.  The horse paid him no mind; she stood with her head down and all four legs braced under her like sheerlegs.  She wanted nothing more than for the annoying Italian to go away and never trouble her again. He patted her damp side, as if he could apologise. 

“Someone will steal you, and look after you. Although,” he added, gloomily, “you will probably end up pulling French artillery-pieces _._ I am very sorry.  You are a _very_ good horse.” 

He went out into the road, pulling the gate closed so that she did not wander out into the road.  The owners of the garden would be surprised to find the orange tree had grown a horse.    

The road was worse without the added height of a horse.  He was a tall man, but even he struggled to fight or see his way through the mob.  He was being pushed and jostled, surrounded by panic and prayer.  He allowed himself to flow along the street toward the river like a seed in a millrace.  How the hell was he going to find just one ship in all this?  He needed a guide – or at the very least someone who could speak Portuguese. 

He found an open shop window and stepped in. 

“ _Com licença.  Battaile de l’Marinha Real?  Com licença?”_

The people there turned, and he found himself facing stony faces.  No help there; in fact they glared at him as if the pandemonium was his fault.  “I’m sorry!” he said in Spanish, waving both hands, and backed out again. 

He let the flow of people carry him to the next door, and found the same result. 

“I don’t understand Spanish,” the man there said, grouchy, and the woman with him  stared dourly with her lips turned down.  She said something angry to him in Portuguese.

Back out, and into the flood.  He hurried down, tacking this way and that across the crowds.  There was a water seller, standing on a street corner. 

“ _Com licença.  Marinha Real, onde?”_

“Go away, _Senhor Espanhol,”_ the water seller said. 

 _“Não! Não!  Inglês,”_ he pointed to his own chest. 

The man made what Stafford called a raspberry tart with his mouth.  “ _Espanhol_!”  he snarled, and added some other angry accusation, but someone else seemed to materialize out of the crowd behind him.  The second man stared at Orsini, and grabbed the water-seller’s arm.  “ _Inglês_!” he said, staring at Orsini.  

“ _Sim!_ ”  Orsini said. “ _Inglês_!”

“Ah!”  the second man said.  He took a firmer grasp on the water seller’s arm.  With his free hand, he gestured toward Orsini’s  chest, wagging his index fingers at his uniform.  He spoke to the water seller in Portuguese.  

“ _Marinha Britanica_ ,” Orsini agreed, pointing to his own buttons.  He shot his cuffs.  “His Majesty’s Ship _Dido.”_

“Fuck that!” the second man said, grinning – thereby proving that the first words anyone learned of a language really _were_ the crude ones. 

“Fuck me,” Orsini agreed, finding a grin spreading over his face. “Fuck this for a game of soldiers.  I’ve fucking had _e-fucking-nough_ of mother-fucking Portugal.” 

The second man turned to the water seller, and smacked his friend in the chest, delighted.  “ _Inglês_!”  

“I need to get to the British Ambassador,” Orsini said, in English.  “There’s not a moment to lose – the ships will sail as soon as the wind comes around.” 

The two men stared at him blankly. 

“ _Não percebo_ ,” the water seller said.

His new friend beckoned to Orsini with one hand.  He might not speak any English, but he didn’t seem worried.  He marched back through the crowd to the shop Orsini had just come from, walked in, and announced himself.  He made a flourish toward Orsini, as if Orsini was a wonderful new invention.

The woman glowered at Orsini.  _“Espanhol!”_ she said. 

“ _Não!”_  

The discussion went on, giving Orsini time to realize that he was standing in a baker’s shop.  He was surrounded by pastries, and he was ravenously hungry.

“Madam,” he said, in English.  “I’ll have a pie, if you’ve got any.  Or anything, really.  I have coin.  Food.  One of those?  _Dinheiro?”_  

His new friend negotiated for him, and a moment later Orsini had exchanged four livres for a pastry.  He crammed it into his mouth.    

The door at the back of the shop opened while he was eating, and a man came in.  He was short, but he had the broad dangling build of a sailor.  The discussion rattled along over Orsini’s head as he gobbled his way through the pastry.  After a moment, the sailor turned to Orsini. 

“ _Senhor_ ,” he said. 

Orsini swallowed the last mouthful of his pastry.  “I am a British officer,” he said, in English. 

“I know,” the sailor said, also in English.  “I know the uniform.  I sailed in the Royal Navy, once.  Years ago.”

"A deserter?"

"No, actually," the sailor said.  "We were taken prisoner in Spain, and my captain let me go."

 “I need your help," Orsini said.  "I have to get back to the British Ambassador, before he sails away.” 

“He’s not here.  He left – many days ago.  They even took down the coat of arms off the embassy gates, and everything.” 

“No, he’s back again.  He’s with the Prince Regent now,” Orsini said.  “If I can get aboard the Prince Regent’s ship, I can get myself back to the fleet.”

“Dom Joao will be in the flagship,” the man said.  “The _Principe_ _Real_.  I know where she is berthed.” 

“I need to get there.” 

“Yes, you certainly can’t stay here!” the sailor said, and came around the counter.  He gestured to Orsini to follow him.  “Come, we will go.  Quickly.”

The woman said something in complaint, that tailed off in a hysterical cry.  The sailor snapped at her, pointing angrily at Orsini.  He gripped Orsini by one elbow and steered him firmly out.  The other man followed them out.  The three of them walked back into the crowded street.  

“She is afraid I will go back to sea, and leave the family to the French,” the sailor shouted over the noise, as they pushed their way through the crowds.  “I am Eduardo, and he is Jorge.” 

 “My name is Paolo Orsini,” he said.  

“That is not an English name,” Eduardo said, breaking stride to glance back at him.

“I am from Volterra,” Orsini said.  “But Bonaparte invaded my home, so now I fight in the Royal Navy instead.”

“Volterra?"

"That is in Italy," Orsini said. 

"I know," Eduardo said.  "I met a Volterrani lady, once!  She was beautiful!  And very fierce!”

“We do _try_ ,” Orsini said, grinning. 

"The whole ship was in love with her, I think," Eduardo grinned.  "But _especially_ the captain.  She was very beautiful!" 

They hurried through the streets, ducking this way and that to get around clumps of people.  The crowd seemed to Orsini to be rapidy progressing from a state of panic to a state of riot.  And then they turned a corner, and Orsini found himself facing a sheet of water, through a lattice of masts and yards at the end. 

The river!  A moment later they were standing on a wharf, the masts and yards of a ship looming against the sky. 

The chaos was tremendous.  There were carts and wagons on the quay, and mounds of chests and wardrobes and boxes and bundles.  The nearest ship was taking on stores as fast as it could.  The crowd of people were watching, pushing and shoving, either shouting or sobbing wretchedly.  There were sailors hanging in the shrouds, looking down, shouting, gesturing, while others had formed a chain over the ship’s bulwark, hurrying on the stores as fast at they could.  As he watched, the stay tackles were used to sway a net full of boxes over the heads of the crowds, and lower it into the ship. There were soldiers on the quay, too, and it seemed their only job was to keep the jostling, frantic crowd away from the ship’s side.  Orsini realized that they were trying to stop any more people from clambering aboard.  

There could be no getting aboard that ship.  Already the press of humanity along the wharfside threatened to press people off the dock into the water. 

“Is that the _Principe Real?_ ” Orsini asked, grasping Eduardo by the elbow to catch his attention in the tumult.  She didn’t seem big enough to be the flagship of anyone’s fleet.  The top of her mainmast was only as tall as the _Dido’s_ maintopgallant yard. 

“ _Nao!_ ” Eduardo said.  “ _That_ is the _Principe_ _Real!_ ”  He pointed out, beyond the jib of the berthed ship, and Orsini followed the line of his arm across the river. 

A warship was anchored there, surrounded by boats.  Not just a warship, but a line-of-battle ship, a two-decker.  Her stern seemed to loom like a bastion above the little boats swarming around her.  There were scores of flags flying at her mastheads, a riot of red and white. 

“I need to get out there,” Orsini said.  He hurried across the wharf to a clear space on the edge of the wharf.  The tumult around the berthed ship was to his right.  He stood on the edge of the stonework, right over the fenders, staring across.  The _Principe Real_ seemed like another world; impossibly far away. 

“I need a boat,” Orsini said. 

“I know where to find one,” Eduardo said.  “We go!” 

Orsini followed Eduardo and Jorge, weaving through the crowds, through a mass of sailors pushing handcarts loaded with sacks of ships’ stores.  They picked their way over mounds of discarded cable and broken spars, and around all the assorted anonymous harbour junk that always ends up parked out of the way of the job at hand.  They dashed around the corner of a stone-walled shed, and along a narrow quay lined with rusted bollards, until there was a sudden break in the stone, and a flight of steps leading down to the slick black surface of the water. 

“Marco!” Eduardo bawled at the top of his lungs.  He cupped his hands around his mouth.  “Marco!” 

There were two men sitting in a little boat.  They were just beginning to gather way through the water.  They were about to go around the corner of the jetty. 

Jorge joined in, “Marco!” and Orsini joined in, and after a second breath they had a chorus going, bellowing in unison.  “Mar Co-o!”

The sternmost of the two oarsmen in the boat turned in his seat.  He raised a hand from his oar to wave at them.  After a moment they had turned the boat around, oars working neatly, digging and dipping.  The boat was gliding back toward the steps again. 

Eduardo went down the steps to the water’s edge, his shoes just above the wavelets on the slippery stone.  Orsini followed him down the steps.  The water level was low, and the steps were black with dried weed.  The air stank of salt water and rotten weed and dead fish.  The dark water slopped at the foot of the steps, tried to push the boat away from the wall.  Jorge went half way down the steps, and then stopped.  He seemed unsure of the slippery steps, and the alien environment of the river. 

The boat slid up alongside the steps, the little prow passing Orsini.  The rower in the bow of the boat brought his oar up to lie fore-and-aft, and leaned over to hook onto a ring in the stone.  He whipped the boat’s painter through the ring with a speed that said that he tied this same knot hundreds of times a day.  Eduardo and Marco began to talk loudly in Portuguese.  The bow oar stood up, listening, surveying Orsini. 

Orsini was unable to contribute to the discussion but he examined the man in return.  The boatmen wore slouch hats, and brown cloaks swung over loose white shirts.  Their legs were bare below the knee, showing the sharp tendons of seamen.  Proud  men, with broad faces and strong muscular throats – a pleasing picture, Orsini thought, even though this particular boatman was looking at him with disapproval. 

“He looks Spanish,” he interjected in Portuguese to Marco and Eduardo.

“I am English!” Orsini declared in the same language, jabbing at his chest with his thumb. 

“He is English!” Eduardo confirmed.  There was a lot of pointing and debating, too fast for Orsini to follow, and then Marco and his partner exchanged words.  Eduardo turned to Orsini. 

“They are watermen – ferrymen.  They carry passengers.  Do you have money?”

 _“Dinheiro?  Sim!”_ Orsini declared. 

 _“Sim!”_ Marco agreed.  He beckoned to Orsini with both palms, as if encouraging a toddler toward him.  

Orsini hoisted his ditty-bag onto his shoulder and crossed over to the boat.  Eduardo followed.  The little boat lurched under them as all four men found their balance.  Orsini and Eduardo perched on the stern, and Marco’s partner shoved them off with a grunt.  The two watermen took up their oars, and danced their little boat around on the water with a grace that would make any Thames ferryman proud. 

“Thank you, my friend!” Orsini yelled back to the steps, where Jorge stood.  Jorge waved back, and then he was out of sight around the corner of the jetty. 

They were soon moving on the broad slick spine of the river itself, and Orsini stared at the view of the harbour that opened itself to his eyes. 

“ _Mio Dio,_ ” he breathed.  Every ship, warship or merchantman, was preparing to sail: hoisting in stores, bending on sails.  The wharves were heaving with people; there were scores of little boats criss-crossing the water. 

This was not an evacuation; this was flight.  

“Every ship that can is going to Brazil,” Eduardo explained.  “Everyone who is anyone important is trying to go with the royal family.”

“The civilians, as well?”

“Everyone,” Eduardo said.  “The Prince is the father of his country, and children want to follow their parents!  But there is no space.  The _Principe Real_ is not taking any more passengers.  Marco says they are threatening to stave in any boat that tries to go aboard them by dropping shot on them.” 

He had _definitely_ been in the Navy if he knew the phrase ‘stave in a boat.’  Orsini had not understood that phrase until he had been a midshipman for three months; he had assumed the term 'stave' had something to do with music.   

“But not you?” Orsini asked.  “You could come with me.”

“And leave my family to the French?” Eduardo asked, rhetorically.  “King George needs men, but my family needs bread.” 

The boat pressed through the water quickly.  Its cutwater pressed out a slick wave on the surface, even though it was driven by nothing more than the muscled backs of the two boatmen.  The two oarsmen swayed back and forth in perfect unison, and the little boat seemed to race through the water as if it was pulling itself along. 

“Before I forget,” Orsini held up one finger.  He fetched out his coin purse, and pulled out another four of his dwindling supply of gold Napoleons.  “For Marco and What’s-his-face, and for you, and for Jorge,” he said. 

“There is a lot of money to be made on the river today,” Eduardo said.  “I think Marco has probably made a month’s pay today, taking people out to the ships.”  He turned and spoke to Marco, who grinned wordlessly, without breaking the effortless rhythm of his oar. 

“Also,” Orsini said, “there is a horse, if you want one.” He described the mare, and the garden.  “She belongs to Mafra Palace, but no-one is going to miss her in all that…” he waved his hand to indicate the commotion ashore.    

The bow oar looked over his shoulder, and called out, _“Principe Real!”_ He pointed with one finger.  Orsini looked up.  The great hull of the two-decker was just ahead of them, surrounded by boats. 

“Tell them not to get too close,” Orsini said.  “Tell them to stand off the stern.”

Eduardo translated, and Marco turned, so as to steer his boat carefully through the other boats toward the stern of the warship. 

“We’ll have to stand off and shout from a distance,” Orsini said. 

“You, and half of Lisboa,” Eduardo warned. 

“I will shout in English,” Orsini said. 

“If anyone hears you,” Eduardo said, and shrugged.

Orsini stared at the ship’s great rudder as they rowed around her.  The stern windows were passing above his head.  Then Marco and his partner backed their oars, blades reversing against their movement, and the boat slipped to a stop.  They bobbed up and down in the water. 

“Give them a hail,” Eduardo said. 

Orsini did not want to stand up in the little boat and risk taking a dip in the winter water.  He cupped both hands around his mouth.  “Ship ahoy!” he yelled. 

His voice had broken at sea, years ago, and he had spent most of the years since then bellowing at the top of his lungs.  He should have been audible on the moon. 

 _“Principe Real,_ ahoy!” he bellowed, trying to reach deeper in his stomach for more volume. “Ship ahoy!  _Marinha Britânica!  Ambassador Britânica!_ Lord Strangford, sir!  _Principe Real,_ ahoy!” 

Marco shouted as well.  A head in a cocked hat appeared over the taffrail, high above them, and yelled down something that sounded like ‘fuck off or we’ll sink you’ in Portuguese. 

The boat was sliding downstream, and Marco and his partner rowed a few strokes to keep their position at the warship’s stern.  The coxswain of another small boat yelled across the gap to Marco, and Marco yelled back, gesturing to Orsini – the usual aggressive banter between small boats on the water. 

“Ship ahoy!”  Orsini bellowed again. 

The man on the poop shouted something else.  Eduardo shouted.  “He’s English!” he yelled in Portuguese.  “He needs Lord Strangford.”

Strangford was probably behind those stern windows right now.  But, Orsini realized, he was probably preoccupied with _mal de mer_.  He probably wouldn’t hear a hail in English if Orsini shouted directly into his ear with a speaking trumpet. 

Smith would not be sick; Smith was a sailor.  Surely Smith would recognise the sounds of English voices?  Maybe he was too far away to recognise English syllables.  Maybe their voices were being lost in the sounds of Portuguese shouting. 

“Sing!” Orsini said.  “Eduardo!  We need to sing!” 

“ _Senhor?_ ” Eduardo asked, but Orsini stood up in the boat. 

He cupped his hands around his mouth, and bellowed the first line of Heart of Oak at the top of his lungs.  “ _Come cheer up my lads, tis to glory we steer_ – sing, Eduardo!  You know this song, don’t you?” 

Eduardo caught on, and cupped his hands around his mouth.  “ _To add something more to this glorious year!_ ” 

“ _For who are so free as the sons of the waves?_ ”  Orsini blared along with him, his voice threatening to crack as he strained to combine high notes with his greatest volume. 

Eduardo couldn’t sing, but with a song like that he didn’t need to be able to carry the tune in a wheelbarrow.  Marco seemed to know the tune, if not the words, because he joined the chorus with a wordless roar that at least gave them extra volume.  Anyone who had spent more than a week in the Navy knew that song; it was the very first English song Orsini had ever sung.

“ _Hearts of oak are our men_ ,” Orsini roared. “ _Mister Smith are you deaf.  Why canyou not hearme!  Steady, boys, steady!  We’ll sing and we’ll sing-this, again and againuntilyouhearmeOhGodfuckSmith…!_ ” 

He sucked in a breath, and then he and Eduardo launched into the second verse.

“ _We ne’er see our foes but we wish them to stay!_ ”  and then one of the stern windows of the Principe Real popped open.  An arm was stuck out, followed by a head. 

Smith twisted to look down at the water, and Orsini saw his mouth open in surprise.  “Mr Orsini?” he shouted down at the boat. 

The three Portuguese broke up into a cheers, and for no reason that Orsini could see other than pure Latin enthusiasm, half of the boats around them burst into a round of applause too. 

“I need to come aboard!” Orsini shouted. 

“How the hell did you get here?” Smith shouted down at him.  “Where the hell have you been?” 

“Can I come aboard?” Orsini shouted across the water to him.  There were other heads over the taffrail looking down at him, and more curious faces pressed up against the glass of the ship’s sternlights. 

“Wait there!” Smith yelled down, as if Orsini was planning to go anywhere, and disappeared into the dark interior of the ship.  The sternlight banged shut. 

Orsini sat down in the boat, and looked at Eduardo, and suddenly they both found themselves laughing.  “I never thought that horrible old thing would be so useful,” Orsini said. 

“Very good, very good,” Eduardo said.  He reached out and clapped Orsini’s shoulder happily, and gave instructions to Marco.  Both boatmen were grinning too. 

A minute later Smith’s head popped up over the taffrail, and he was yelling down in Portuguese to the boatmen, who pulled their oars to angle their craft alongside the massive side of the ship. There was a howl of injustice from some of the other boats, clustered at a distance from the hull, but Marco ignored it. 

Orsini looked up at the curved hull above his head, as the little boat made its way up its side.   He had never been so close to another nation’s warship without doing his utmost to destroy it – he felt as if he was approaching a dragon’s lair to give it a cookie. 

“Thank you, my friend,” he said to Eduardo. 

“It’s nothing,” Eduardo shrugged.  “I am paying off my debt to my old captain!  Eduardo Ferraro does not forget his debts!  _Boa Viagem, senhor._ I hope we meet again, one day.”

A sailor of the Principe Real was hanging down from the sideropes, and he beckoned Marco and his partner to bring their boat alongside the ship’s side.  He reached out a hand,  ready to help Orsini into a boatswain’s chair, but Orsini said, “Não,  I don’t need it, _Marinha Britânica!_ ”  He gripped the man-ropes, made the steep step across to the lowest batten, and climbed steadily up to the break in the bulwark, pulling his body up with the man ropes. 

The first thing he saw as his eyes cleared the level of the deck was Smith, hurrying over to him.  Smith reached out a hand, and Orsini gripped it.  A second later he was being hauled over the brow of the ship into the Principe Real, welcomed aboard with an enthusiastic heave of Smith’s arm. 

“Where the devil did you get to?”  Smith asked, pumping his hand, more delighted than demanding.

“I had a bit of an escapade,” Orsini admitted. 

“We thought you’d travel with the Prince!”

“Well, the Prince thought I’d travel with you!”

“You can imagine the look on Lord Strangford’s face when we came aboard and the Prince asked where you were!  He thought he’d lost the Marchesa di Volterra’s heir!” 

“Well, here I am.  No harm done,” Orsini said.  “Where is he?”

“Closeted with the Prince Regent,” Smith said.  “They’re been at it for a while, too.” 

“I won’t burst in, then,” Orsini said.  He looked around.  The _Principe Real_ was grubby to a degree that would make a British first lieutenant burst a blood vessel, but she was also crowded with people.  The sailors had hardly any room to work.  He went to the rail, and looked over the side. 

The little boat was standing off the ship’s side, three anxious faces looking up at him.  He took off his hat and waved, and yelled “ _Obrigada,_ Eduardo, Marco!”

For some reason, he heard giggling from a pair of sailors behind him.  Eduardo waved, and shouted back “ _Obriga-DO!_ ” at the top of his lungs. 

Then the boat was pulling away through the water.  Orsini had had a narrow escape, but there were other narrow escapes on the river today.  Marco and his partner were already thinking about their next passengers.  Orsini put his hat back on his head.  

“Who is here?”  he asked Smith. 

“ _Here_ – everyone.  Vice-Admiral D’Acunha is in command – you met him.  The Prince is here, and both princes, Pedro and Miguel, and Queen Maria.”

“Did you see the Queen?  Is she really mad?”

Smith pursed his lips.  “I don’t know who in this ship speaks English,” he warned, in an undertone.  He led Orsini away from the rail to the base of the mizzen mast, out of the way.

 “She hasn’t stopped wailing about demons and the Apocalypse since she came aboard, so personally I take that as I find it,” Smith said, “Princess Carlota Joaquina is over there, in the _Alfonso d'Albuquerque_ , with four of her daughters.”  Smith pointed over the deck to another ship, also anchored in the river. 

“All their dynastic eggs in one basket,” Orsini said, doubtfully, looking at the other ship through the curtain of the Principe Real’s shrouds.  “Not very clever, this family.”  

“The other daughters are _there_ , in the _Principe-de-Brazil._ That’s the _Conde-Henrique, there._  Those frigates astern are the _Minerva,_ and the _Urania_ … I don’t know how many other ships are sailing altogether.”

“Every ship in the fleet,” Orsini said.  “The whole court.” 

“And goodness knows how many people,” Smith said. 

“Thousands,” Orsini said.  He could see how crowded the Principe Real was; there were people in civilian clothing who were wandering around the decks as if they had nowhere to sit down, never mind sleep. 

“And all for nothing, if the wind does not turn,” Smith said.  “We need an easterly to get out, or the French will catch us all sitting here.”

“I thought they were days away!”

“They _were_.  Junot has stolen a march on the Portuguese.  He left his army and he’s coming on with just a few hundred men.  He’s even left his guns behind.  It’s turned into a race.” 

“A race between French legs and Portuguese weather!” Orsini said. 

“If we don’t get an easterly, it will all be for nothing,” Smith said.  “We might be  prisoners of war in a few days.”

Smith might end up as a prisoner of war, but Orsini had no illusions.  General Junot would never let the heir of the Desired Lady out of his grasp.  Orsini would end up in an unmarked grave, like the Duc d’Enghien. 

“Then we’ll just have to pray that the wind changes,” Orsini said, and crossed himself reflexively.  “Wait, prepare, and pray for the wind…” 

He turned, and looked away beyond the Principe Real’s bows, staring toward the eastern horizon, and Smith turned with him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the verbatim wording I gave the Prince, as well as the character of Lieutenant Smith, I took from the book written by one of HMS London's Marines, Thomas O'Neill.
> 
> And yes, Eduardo is the same Portuguese seaman that Ramage lets go in 'Ramage and the Drumbeat,' because why not?


	6. Fleet action

_The Calypso was burning!_

Jackson hit out in his sleep, and his own voice broke through his nightmare.  The angry sun of the nightmare shattered.  He opened his eyes into darkness. 

It was a dream… He was awake, and in his own hammock.  He was alone, in a cabin of his own on the quarterdeck. 

He rolled onto his back in his hammock, and lay staring up at the dark deckhead.  He could tell that the _Dido_ was pitching strongly.  Her timbers groaned, as if she writhed through the water like a muscular animal, and the Atlantic boomed along the bilge.  Over and under everything else, the vibration of the wind hummed through the mast and rigging like the ship's voice. 

What had woken him? 

It was Sunday morning, so the crew would be roused earlier than usual to prepare for the captain’s inspection, but he himself did not need to get up for a few more hours.  He was an idler now, and worked only during the day.  He had not hauled on a rope, nor been aloft, since leaving Portsmouth.  He was secretly enjoying sleeping through the night undisturbed.  He was definitely enjoying having a cabin of his own.  Admittedly, it wasn't a very big cabin.  He slept with a twelve-pounder, and he could only sling the hammock one way because the cabin was too narrow to sling it the other way.  But still, it was blissful to sleep in privacy, undisturbed by the sounds of three hundred other men snoring, farting and scratching themselves all night - blissful to sleep away from three hundred pairs of watching eyes. 

He still wondered at his sudden promotion.  He had not hauled on a rope, nor gone aloft, since leaving Portsmouth.  And now it seemed that the captain had decided that he was not going aloft again.  Three times Jackson had offered; three times he had been refused. As captain’s clerk, Jackson had the right to walk the quarterdeck.  It seemed that Ramage had decided that the clerk did not _also_ have the right to go aloft.

Did Ramage _know?_  

Jackson remembered that horrible moment, weeks ago.  He remembered flailing against nothing, kicking frantically as gravity betrayed him.  He remembered his whole life had come down to the tiny pivot of Rossi’s grip on his wrist.  He remembered staring down at his own hands later, feeling the shock and the shaking deep in his stomach, realizing that he was losing the iron strength that he had always taken for granted. 

If Ramage knew, what else did he know?  What _else_ of Jackson's secrets were known to him? 

 But no.  Ramage could not know. Ramage could not keep secrets.  He didn't have the duplicity for lying, or espionage, or betrayal.  If he knew, he would have let his knowledge show by now.  The secret would have burned inside that generous heart, and he would have let it out. 

Ramage did not know.  He wanted company in the great cabin, that was all.  Ramage did not know.  Nobody knew.  Jackson’s secrets were safe – all of his secrets.  He was safe, still.  He drew his blanket up to his ears, and closed his eyes.

He jerked awake again.  

Hard shoes marched across the poop deck over his head; one of the officers.  He saw the glow of a lantern moving around the thin frames of the bulkheads, there was a clatter outside the cabin, and a door opened and closed.   Someone had gone into the great cabin. 

He heard Silkin’s door open. 

“Silkin?” he called. 

“It’s me.” 

“What’s going on?” 

Silkin sounded excited as he spoke through Jackson’s door.  “Mr Loach just sent a snotty in to wake the captain.  We’ve got an easterly!”

Jackson sat up in his hammock, bracing his hand on the deckhead over him.  “An easterly!”

With an easterly, the Portuguese could come out of the Tagus!  With an easterly, the British ambassador could get himself back out to the fleet, and bring young Orsini with him.  The westerly wind had bottled up the Tagus all of yesterday, and the day before – but now it had come around!  If the Portuguese wanted to come out, they would come today! 

And if Paolo Orsini was coming out, he would come out today, or not at all! 

He sat up in the darkness.  His heart was beating faster.  He knew he would never get back to sleep now!  He couldn’t get ships out of the Tagus any faster by getting up, but equally he could not lie here for another moment! 

By the light of a lantern borrowed from Silkin,  he dressed himself quickly and carefully, and shaved in a pot of water Silkin brought him.  For the first time, today he had decided to wear  a tail-coat and waistcoat over knee-breeches and stockings.  The Captain had given him the suit during their march to Pitigliano, and Jackson had kept it as his shore-going suit.  Today he was going to wear it on the quarterdeck for the first time.  He might not look like a gentleman, but at least he did not look as if he’d wandered onto the quarterdeck by accident.  He was the Captain's clerk; he might as well start dressing the part. 

He went up to the quarterdeck, and lurked in the dark as the _Dido_ woke up around him.  Ramage himself arrived on the quarterdeck before dawn, and the _Dido_ ’s Marine drummer began beating to quarters.   

Every warship at sea greeted the morning at general quarters, ready for battle if the sunrise revealed an enemy.  As the sky brightened, the ship seemed to hold her breath, but only the shadows of the _Dido_ ’s consorts loomed out of the night, ahead and astern.  The horizon opened out in all directions, revealing a vista of sea and ships.  The crew was stood down, and the Captain disappeared back below to his cabin for his breakfast. 

The 29th of November 1807 had begun. 

And the fleet had an easterly, at last.  If the Portuguese were coming out, they would come out today. 

Jackson felt too fretful to merely sit in his cabin.  His work was ready for the inspection, but Ramage was no-one's friend so early in the morning.  Jackson went to find Stafford and Rossi instead.  It had been a few days since he'd last talked to them…

Stafford and the rest of Mess 17 were sitting inside the captain’s gig.  The boat was stowed on the spars that ran across the upper gundeck, and they were at work inside it. 

“You forgot to pull out the plug, didn’t you?” he asked Stafford.  He climbed over the gunwale and sat in the sternsheets as if they were going to row him away. 

“Go away, Jacko,” Stafford said, amiably.  “This is my job now!”  

They were busy pulling up the footboards so that they could scrub the inside of the boat.  All the ship-visiting meant that more seawater than usual worked its way under there, and Stafford must have forgotten to pull out the plug to drain the water.  A stinky boat would earn a stinky eye from Mr Ramage – and he _would_ notice it, because he noticed everything. 

“ _You_ look the fancy,” Rossi said to Jackson. 

“Glad you like it,” Jackson said.   “I want to look good for inspection today.”   He turned his neck: he’d forgotten how a high collar pinched his throat.  

“The handsomest American on board,” Rossi said. 

“The _only_ American on board,” Albert gave Rossi his punchline, and they grinned at each other. 

“Well, I am the Captain’s clerk, now,” he said. 

“I thought you were the confidential secretary?” Rossi teased. 

“There’s not much difference between ‘em, I think.” 

“Whotcher reckon is happening in Lisbon, Jacko?” Stafford asked.

“I don’t know,” Jackson said.  “The wind has been blowing from the west for the last few days, so we don’t know if the Frogs have taken over yet.”

“There are Russians in there, too, aren’t there?”  Rossi asked. 

“There are.  Nine ships of the line, Mr Ramage says, and at least as many Portuguese line of battle ships as well.”  They were now only pretending to work, Jackson realized.  Still bending over as if they were hard at it, but listening closely to what he was saying. 

“If the French have taken over, and the Portuguese and Russians all come out together,” Gilbert said.  “There would be enough of them to give us a real _challenge_.”  He pronounced the word in the French way. 

“Not unless they’re stupid,” Stafford scoffed.  “Look at what we did to them when Villy-Nerve came out of Cadiz!”

“The Portuguese are not like the Villeneuve,” Gilbert warned. 

“The Portuguese won’t fight for Boney!” Stafford said.  “Blimey!”  He shook his head. 

“They might not have a choice,” Jackson warned.  “If their officers order them to sail, they’ll sail."

“ _If, if, if_ ,” Stafford grumbled.  “Give us an enemy to fight, and we’ll fight ‘em, but all this _if_ makes me head hurt!” 

“All we have right now is ‘if,’” Jackson said.  “We haven’t heard a peep from Lisbon in days.” 

“Nah!  _We_ haven’t ‘eard a peep from the _‘Ibernia!_ ” Stafford said, pointing outboard with his holystone.  “The big cheese might know what’s what, but ‘e won’t tell us, will ‘e?  Not with the Rake over there fillin’ ‘is shell-like wiv porkers about Mr Ramage.”

“Is that English?  I was not understanding those words?” Albert said to Rossi. 

“The only word you need to know is _‘Ibernia!”_ Stafford declared, giving the thwart another thump with his holystone. 

“ _Cochon_ ,” Auguste agreed. 

“Jacko, you wouldn’t believe ‘ow unfriendly that ship is!” Stafford complained.  “When we went over there wif the capting, their cox’n didn’t even offer me a wet!” 

“That’s rude,” Jackson said, surprised.  Usually all the ship’s coxswains got to know each other.  The boats crossed between the ships almost daily.  The boats' crews got to know each other well and became the unofficial news conduits of the whole fleet. 

“And the ‘ole company’s just the same!” Stafford griped.  “Sour as catpiss, the ‘ole lot of ‘em.” 

“ _Sta tranquille_ , Staff!  As long as we get Mr Orsini back!” Rossi said.  “That is the important.”

“Yus,” Stafford agreed.  “If we ‘ave to go in there and fetch ‘im back they’ll be sorry, ho yus.” 

“And if the Portuguese fleet comes out,” Jackson promised, “we’ll blow them to Kingdom come.” 

* * *

 

After dismissing the ship’s company, Ramage went below for his own breakfast.  He washed and shaved, and Silkin helped him into his full dress uniform, making sure that his neck-cloth was folded correctly, and his hair was tied back tightly.  He was just finishing the last of his coffee when the Marine sentry announced Midshipman Bennett. 

Bennett came in, and stood at attention.  “Sir,” Bennett said.  “Mr Kenton’s compliments, and the men are mustered in divisions and ready for inspection.” 

“Very good,” Ramage said.  “Inform Mr Kenton I’ll be up shortly.”

“Aye aye sir,” Bennett said, and went out again. 

Ramage drained the dregs of his coffee.  Bennett had come on very well since he had first joined the _Dido._   He had passed his twentieth birthday, and he was ready to sit his lieutenant’s examination.  Ramage could send Bennett and Orsini together to the next round of examinations.

_If Orsini came back…_

Ramage felt his stomach tighten.  The boy was alone in a foreign city, with a French army all but looking over the garden hedge, and this damn westerly wind had kept him there for days.  His mind, unwanted, threw up a picture of Paolo, pale and dead, stripped of his uniform… 

 _No._   _Stop that, you fool. Don’t think that!_   

There was no reason to think anything had happened to the boy.  The _Confiance_ had delivered him safely to Lisbon.  Captain Croucher had sent Ramage a letter yesterday. 

_Your Mr Orsini has been safely delivered in the company of Lord Strangford.  Lieutenant Yeo has assured me that they were met on the wharf by a deputation, and were welcomed with what looked to him like every courtesy.  No further boats have come off to us, but rest assured that I will keep you apprised of any news regarding your protégé…_

Stiff language, and he could almost hear Croucher’s scratchy voice in his scratchy handwriting, but the message was warm enough – _if_ it was genuine.  

Croucher had hated Ramage before.  Would Croucher stoop so low as to abandon the Marchesa di Volterra's nephew ashore under the hooves of a French army?  Did Croucher still hate Ramage enough to kill a young man he didn't know, just to further his hatred? 

Yes, Ramage thought with a cold shudder.  Croucher had hated Ramage enough to kill Ramage.  He was furthering a hatred that had begun before _Ramage_ was born; he wouldn’t hesitate to carry that hatred onto the boy. He imagined Paolo, pale and dead, stripped of his uniform, and levered into a soldiers’ grave…

_Christ! Stop that!_

Ramage picked up his best hat, made sure that his sword and neck-cloth were straight, and went out of his cabin. 

On the quarterdeck, Kenton touched his hat.  “Sir,” he said. 

“Mr Kenton.”  Ramage acknowledged the salute. 

The Dido’s crew had been mustered in their divisions, behind their midshipmen and lieutenants.  They looked their Sunday best, fresh clothes, freshly shaven, their hair tied neatly.  Every man stood with a toe on a particular deck seam in the deck – the only way that sailors could be coaxed into standing in a line.   The Marines were lined up, at attention. 

He saw Jackson on the quarterdeck, standing between the chaplain and the purser. For the first time, Jackson was wearing a formal coat, matched with breeches and stockings.  The captain’s secretary could not wear a seaman’s loose shirt and wide-cuffed trousers on the quarterdeck.  Ramage’s ruse was working well, he thought.  If that coat was any judge, Jackson had finally accepted that he was not a seaman any longer.

“Ship’s company are all present and correct, sir,” Kenton reported, as if Ramage could not see them.  

“Thank you, Mr Kenton.  I will inspect the men this morning,” he said, as if he had just made the decision for himself. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I shall start with the Marines,” Ramage said, as if he did not always start with the Marines. 

“Very good, sir.” 

Ramage walked down the stiff scarlet rank of Marines, lined along the quarterdeck at attention.  They were good men, blooded and battle-tested, and Captain Rennick was a good officer.  Ramage stopped for a few words with Rennick and his lieutenants. 

After the Marines, Ramage moved down to the gundeck.  He paced along the lines of men, pausing here and there to speak with  them. He knew these men by now; their names and their faces; their characters and their quirks.  He had worried that he might never get to know the Didos the way he had known the Calypsos, but he had been wrong.  A seventy-four was a damned big ship, but not so big that he would not get to know the men who looked to him for every detail of their daily lives. 625 men, and the four women, only one of which Ramage officially knew about, and they were his, as he was theirs. 

“Very good, Mr Kenton.  Dismiss the men to their stations.  I will inspect the ship.” 

“Aye aye, sir.” 

The boatswain’s calls shrilled, and the men fell out of their lines.  Their feet drummed the deck as they ran to their stations.  Each man went to his particular place of responsibility in the ship. 

Ramage glanced at the eastern horizon, giving them time to reach their places.  He could just make out the distant pyramid of the frigate _Solebay_ ’s sails, almost hidden in the glare.  If a ship came out of Lisbon, the inshore squadron would signal through the _Solebay._  

“Breeze is holding, sir,” Kenton said.  He reached out and tapped his knuckle on the rail.  “Touch wood.” 

“Touch wood,” Ramage agreed, and knocked on the rail as well.  “Let’s begin.” 

With Kenton at his side, notebook and pencil ready, Ramage began walking through the ship, inspecting every cabin, every compartment in her huge hull.  He knew he wouldn’t find anything out of place.  This inspection was a formality; part of the lattice of rituals that held the ship’s company together.  The unacknowledged women would be well hidden.  He went down to the lower gundeck, inspecting the lines of great guns.  Every gun had its equipment ready above and around it; every gun was yoked immovably into place with the correct lashings.  Every gun crew stood around their weapon.  Ramage stopped, now and then, to exchange a few words with them.  Here was Collins, who was worried that he was about to be pensioned off.  Here were the three O'Riordon brothers, who fought and reconciled and fought with each other in an endless rotation of fraternal discord.  Here was the ship's only Czech.  Here was Porter, whose wife was in Bristol slowly dying of consumption, and who was terrified for his children.   A seventy-four was a damn big ship, but these were his men. 

He walked slowly along the lower gun-deck, reading off to himself the names stencilled on the guns’ carriages as he paced along the deck.  Battling Bertie, Jumping Jenny, Firespitter, Boney’s Medicine, LaFayette …  

Ah, LaFayette.  The Number 17 32-pounder.  That had been Jackson’s gun.  LaFayette’s mate on the other side was named DeGrasse.  Stafford had been outvoted by his messmates the day the gun crews had voted on names for the ship’s guns. 

Ramage had thought he had prevented any inappropriate names by ordering a lieutenant to vet the names before they were painted on the carriages, but he hadn’t thought his order through far enough.  As it happened, M. Georges-Antoine Hill thought DeGrasse and LaFayette were _wonderful_ namesakes for British naval guns.  Ramage smiled wryly, every time he passed those guns. 

Ramage paused next to Lafayette.  “ _Buongiorno,_ ” he said to Rossi.  

“ _Buongiorno, capitano_ ,” Rossi said, knuckling his forehead and grinning.  “May I ask the _capitano_ a question?” 

“Of course,” Ramage agreed, aware that no-one else around LaFayette spoke Italian. 

“Is Signor Orsini coming out today?”

“We have an easterly, Signor Rossi, so we can hope.”

“If he doesn’t come out, we would like to volunteer to go in and fetch him out,” Rossi said.

“If he doesn’t come out, the Portuguese will be very sorry,” Ramage said, although he knew he could make no promises. 

 _“Si, capitano!”_ Rossi said. 

There was a sudden shout from the deck above, penetrating down clearly to the gundeck.  The lookout was hailing the deck.  _“Deck there!  The Solebay is signalling!”_

Ramage stiffened.  His eyes lifted toward the quarterdeck instinctively.  The _Solebay_ was the furthest out of the fleet’s frigates.  Her job was to transmit the signals of the inshore squadron to Sir Sidney.  If she was signalling, something was happening in Lisbon. 

"I spoke well, Signore," Rossi said, delighted.  "That is Signor Orsini now." 

"I shall have to find you another few warm bodies for this gun," he said to Stafford.  "Eight men are allowed for a 32-pounder.  Now that Jackson's been promoted, you shouldn't have to hump it around with only six." 

There were grins around LaFayette, aimed at Stafford, which was a sign to Ramage that Jackson was right, and Stafford had indeed been complaining.  Stafford was like an irritable pony; every now and again, he needed to kick up his heels and buck. 

The gun-deck tipped over as the ship came about.   The officer of the deck had changed tack, following the next ship ahead.  He could hear the sails above, battering.  The awkward rolling turned into a more powerful surging pitch, as the ship steadied on her new course. 

“Sir!”  Mr Bennett appeared again, wriggling with excitement.  The midshipman saluted.  “Sir, Mr Hill’s compliments, and he desired me to inform you that the _Solebay_ has signalled to the flag.   Nine sail in sight to the northeast!  Sails are ships of the line!” 

Rossi let out an excited squawk.    

“Nine?” Ramage echoed.  His heart sank, as the meaning of the words penetrated his mind. He felt his vision contract in a curtain of black. 

“Yes, sir!  Nine ships of the line!”  Bennett was grinning, as if it was good news.  "And more coming out!" 

“It must be the Portuguese fleet, sir!” Kenton said.  “They’re coming out to face us!” 

Ramage felt a surge of anger. 

He glanced around him.  The seamen were almost vibrating around him with aggressive eagerness.  He could hear a seaman at another gun reciting, “They’re coming _out,_ they’re coming _out!_ _”_    

A third of these men had been in the _Calypso_ at Trafalgar, Ramage realized.  Rossi and Stafford themselves had been in the  _Kathleen_ at St Vincent.  They had fought before, and won before, and they were vibrating with bloodlust to win again.  They were supremely confident.   

How long would it take the Portuguese fleet to get here?  On a clear day, the masthead lookout could see the sails of ships up to twenty miles away.  The Portuguese had a stronger wind than the Combined Fleet had had at Trafalgar.  It would take Ramage another hour to finish the inspection, and then Divine Service would take another hour, and then the men would go to dinner.  One of Ramage's duties, laid down in the Regulations and Instructions, was to read the Articles of War to the ship’s company at least once a month.  He had foregone it last week because of the freezing rain, but today was the 29th of November, and he was obliged to do it today.  If he carried on the inspection, either he would not have time to read the Articles, or the men would not have time for their dinner. 

No, Ramage decided.  The inspection was the lesser of two evils.  Men fought better on a full stomach. 

“I’m cancelling the remainder of my inspection.”  Ramage could hear the flatness in his voice.  “I’m going on deck.” 

“Yes, sir!”

Ramage went up the ladder to the quarterdeck, and was met a cluster of excited officers. 

“The _Solebay_ is still signalling, sir!” Bennett reported.  “ _Twelve_ sails in sight so far.” 

“Excellent,” Southwick said, with a grin, rubbing his hands together with  bloodthirsty glee.  “They’re coming out!” 

 “This isn’t a debutante ball!” Ramage barked. 

“Mr Orsini, sir?” Martin asked, a worried look on his round face. 

Of all of the wardroom officers, Martin was the closest to Paolo.  Only Martin had put two and two together.  If the Portuguese were coming, Paolo Orsini wasn’t. Paolo Orsini was dead.  Paolo might have died days ago!  

“Your guess is as good as mine, Mr Martin,” Ramage said.  

“Orsini?” Southwick asked.  “Does this mean…?” 

“If the Portuguese _are_ coming out,” Ramage said, “then the French are in Lisbon, and Orsini is probably …” 

He couldn't bring himself to add the last word.  His stomach lurched inside him; a hot sickening shudder of rage.

Southwick’s cheerful face crumpled up in despair.  “Oh, sir!  Oh, no, not the boy!” 

“Shall we clear for action, sir?” Hill suggested. 

“No,” Ramage said.  “I’m not waiting around for them like a cabby!  We have enough time to do this right!  Mr Kenton, have the men mustered aft!”

The boatswain’s calls squealed, and the men scurried up the hatchways, pouring out like angry ants.  In a few minutes they were standing in a loose congregation on the decks in front of him.  The Marines were a solid block of red,  with Rennick and his two lieutenants at their head. 

Jackson appeared at Ramage’s elbow, and passed him the Articles of War without a word.  His grey eyes met Ramage’s; icy cold.  Ramage nodded, and Jackson nodded back, expressionlessly.   Jackson had loved Paolo almost as much as Ramage himself.  No words were needed between them. 

Ramage took the book, and walked up to the quarterdeck rail.  He looked forward at his men, arrayed in front of him.  They looked back at him with expectant faces.

“First we deal with _this!”_ Ramage said loudly, holding the book aloft.  “And then we deal with _them!”_   He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward Lisbon. 

He hadn’t intended it as a speech, but he heard a few laughs, and the beginning of a cheer. 

 ** _“SHUT UP!”_** he roared at the top of his lungs. 

The laughter clamped off instantly.  Silence.   Ramage glared at them.  He opened the Articles, and began to read. 

_“Article One!  All commanders, captains, and officers, in or belonging to any of His Majesty's ships or vessels of war…”_

In a few hours, they would be in action.  Were those ships all Portuguese, or were the Russian ships coming with them, fighting together under French orders?  Not that it mattered; this fleet would still smash them up. 

_“Article Six!  No person in the fleet shall receive an enemy or rebel with money, victuals, powder, shot, arms, ammunition, or any other supplies whatsoever…”_

Ramage saw that the men were starting to dart glances across the bulwarks.  They were facing in his direction, but their heads kept turning over to glance toward the eastern horizon.  They were looking at something behind him, not really listening to the Articles of War.  He couldn’t blame them; he wasn’t even listening to himself. 

_“If any officer, mariner, soldier or other person in the fleet, shall strike any of his superior officers, or draw, or offer to draw, or lift up any weapon against him, being in the execution of his office, on any pretence whatsoever, every such person being convicted of any such offense, by the sentence of a court martial, shall suffer death…”_

Paolo Orsini was gone.  The boy was _gone._  The eager young midshipman who’d got himself tangled in his own signal halyards was lying cold and dead somewhere.  Orsini was dead, but a lot of Portuguese sailors would join him in death soon enough.  He swallowed down his anger and his sorrow.  If Paolo Orsini was not coming back, the _Dido_ would take out Ramage's grief in Portuguese blood.  Ramage’s stomach shook inside him with another spasm of rage. 

He glanced down at the book, and realized he was reciting from memory, rather than seeing the words.   The Articles were so familiar that his voice knew the cadences with no attention from his brain.  

Orsini was never coming back.  If he was alive at all, he was in Junot’s hands, and  Bonaparte would never let him live.  Gianna had slipped through Bonaparte’s fingers twice, and she had become a powerful symbol of resistance to French rule in the Italian peninsula.  The last heir of the House of Conde had been put against a wall and shot.  The last Lord Nominee of Volterra would follow him. 

Ramage focused his eyes on the book.  He was at the last Article now, the infamous Captain’s Cloak.  Only a few more words! 

 _“All other crimes not capital committed by any person or persons in the fleet, which are not mentioned in this act, or for which no punishment is hereby directed to be inflicted!  Shall be punished!  By the laws and customs!  In such cases …  used …  at … sea!”_    

Done!   He whopped the covers of the book closed, and thrust it blindly in Jackson’s direction.  

“Mr Kenton!” he snapped, spinning around.  “Hands will be piped to dinner immediately!” 

“Aye aye sir!”

Kenton bellowed, the boatswain’s calls trilled.  The men broke up at a run.  Most of the men on watch ran straight to the rail.  The off watch sprinted down the hatches to gobble their dinners.   Rennick marched his Marines forward, and then dismissed them, and they galloped away.  Within minutes, the parade was over and Ramage was left alone. 

He walked over to the rail and stared out across the sea.  

The horizon was broken with tiny white teeth – the topgallants of big ships.  A whole fleet was coming, still hull-down over the curve of the earth.  At this extreme distance they seemed to be standing still, as if their masts were glued to the horizon, but they were coming.    

The British ships were sailing closehauled now, trying to beat up to windward to close the distance with the strangers.  The two fleets were straining to close with each other. 

Ramage felt the anger shaking inside him.  This was the Navy that had bombarded Copenhagen.  This was the Navy that had destroyed the Combined Fleet at Trafalgar.  This Navy had beaten the Spanish at St Vincent, and the French at the Nile, and now they were going to do it again. 

Orsini was never coming back, and the Portuguese were going to pay for Ramage's grief in blood.  He was going to kill every Portuguese he set eyes on.   

* * *

 

Below, at Mess 17, dinner was being swallowed as rapidly as the six men around the table could chew.  

“He's as cool as a cucumber," Stafford said, admiringly.  "Enemy fleet popping up, but he stops and reads the Articles like they ain't even there!" 

"Very debonair," Gilbert agreed.  "Not worried." 

"Well, we are going to win, of course," Rossi said. 

"We _are_ going to win!"  Stafford said, thumping the side of the ship at his shoulder.  “Ho, yus, it’ll be Trafalgar all over again!”  

 “ _Un moment_ ,” Gilbert said, his biscuit in mid-air. “If the Portuguese are here – why are they here?” 

“To fight wiv us!” Stafford said.  “Innit obvious?” 

“ _If_ the Portuguese are here to fight with us,” Gilbert said, as if talking himself through a new idea he wasn’t sure he liked, “Then it can only be because the French are making them fight.  The Portuguese have always been friendly with the English, _oui?_ Not to be fighting each other?”    

“Yus,” Stafford agreed. 

“So if the French are in Portugal  – then where is Monsieur Orsini?”  

There was a silence around the table. 

“He’s all right,” Stafford insisted.  “He must be all right.” 

“Yes,” Rossi said.  “He escaped from the French before.  And so did the Marchesa." 

"Twice!" Stafford said.  "He can look after himself.  He’ll be all right.” 

“The duc d’Enghien was not all right,” Gilbert breathed.  He exchanged glances with the other three Frenchmen around the table. 

“ _Merde,_ ” Auguste said. 

“Eat, eat, eat!” Louis hurried at them.  “Eat, not talk.  We fight soon!  We make these pigs sorry!” 

“All right, all right!  Going…  going,” Stafford said, running a lump of ship’s biscuit around the raised edges of his plate to soak up the last of the fat.  He crammed the biscuit into his mouth.  “Gone!” he said, his mouth full. 

 

* * *

 

On the quarterdeck, Ramage had been watching the distance between the two fleets narrowing.  The breeze was picking up, as if it wanted to press the fleets faster toward their mutual slaughter.  The enemy was still hull-down, but they were slipping up over the curvature of the earth, one by one.  More sails were popping up over the horizon every minute; a grand array of sails like a giant regatta. 

“ _Solebay_ to the _Hibernia_ _,_ sir!” Bennett reported, flicking through the pages of the signal book.  “Flag 2296 – The enemy's fleet is numerous!" 

"You don't _say!"_ Hill scoffed. 

Jackson began to write the signal on the binnacle slate; his chalk squeaked and ticked noisily.  He said nothing.  His lean face still wore that bland mask of reptilian rage. 

“Is the _Hibernia_ signalling?” Ramage asked.  The _Hibernia_ was hidden by the ships between them, but any signal the flagship made would be repeated by the frigates.  Captain Croucher was in the same position Captain Hardy had been at Trafalgar; after today, Croucher would be famous too. 

“No, sir; she's just acknowledging the frigates.”

The enemy was running down the wind toward the waiting British fleet.  The _Hibernia_ emerged from before the ships ahead of the _Dido,_ coming about on a new tack, that would take her closer toward the oncoming ships.  The ships following her would tack to follow her, one by one.  They were slicing up toward the enemy in short tacks, striving to bring battle to the Portuguese. 

The men must have swallowed their dinners whole, because they were already coming back to the deck.  Some of them were climbing the shrouds, perching there like seabirds to watch.  The quarterdeck was full.  Every officer with the right to walk the quarterdeck was here to look. 

“There are a hell of a lot of them, sir,” Southwick said to Ramage, breaking into his thoughts. 

“The more, the better,” Ramage said, grimly. 

"They're not coming out in any sort of order, though," Kenton said. 

"Is this some weird new tactic they're trying?" Southwick asked. 

"If it is, it will fail," Ramage promised. 

The lieutenants and the Marine officers were standing a few yards away, just behind Ramage.  Tradition decreed that the windward side of the quarterdeck of the ship belonged to the captain, but it would have taken super-human self control for the lieutenants not to stand as close to the rail as they politely could. 

“I see at least thirty sail over there,” Loach said. 

“They’re not coming out in any sort of a line, though,” Hill said. 

 “No,” Loach agreed.  “Just a gaggle, like a flock of geese.”

“So did the French at Trafalgar,” Rennick said.  “And _they_ formed up, eventually.”

“We’ll be in with them long before they’ve formed up,” Hill said.  “Then we’ll knock, knock, _knock_ ‘em for six.”  He mimed holding a cricket bat, and returned a ball with a sharp cluck of his tongue. 

The _London_ tacked, and then it was the _Dido’_ s turn.  The _Dido_ turned into the wind, and swung completely across it.  For a moment, as always, the ship seemed to hang there, until the wind filled her sails from the other side, and she began to gather speed on her new course.  A few minutes later the _Dido_ was powering her way along in the _London_ ’s wake. 

Ramage walked over to what was now the new windward rail, and looked astern at the _Bedford_ _._  Walker brought the _Bedford_ around in her turn, and she began to follow the _Dido._

Ramage was going to kill as many Portuguese as he could today.  Today he was glad, for the first time, that the Dido was sailing in the line of battle, and not alone.  Together with the other huge ships, they would take a were-gild for Paolo Orsini that the Portuguese would not forget… 

Ramage realized he had begun to rub at the scar over his brow.

There were so many ships now that they were difficult to distinguish and count against the rising sun.  They were racing out to meet the British fleet as if the sun was filling their sails.  The _Solebay_ and the little _Confiance_ had come out, yielding the sea before the oncoming fleet – frigates did not stand their ground against ships of the line.  Both little ships were keeping well to the side of the great battle fleets.  The enemy fleet was spread out across the horizon in a great bow from north to south, with the exception of the nearest cluster of ships.  Those ships had formed up into line, but the rest weren’t even trying.

“That first group there,” Ramage said to Southwick.  _“They_ seem to be getting into a line.  Those, right there?”  He pointed. 

Southwick took a look through his own telescope.  “They’re getting into line, right enough, sir,” Southwick agreed. 

“But the rest of them!” Kenton said.  “Look at them!  It looks like they’re trying to run a race!”

The distance closed, slowly.  The British ships were sailing together in a compact line of battle, close-hauled to get up to windward and meet their enemies as soon as possible.  The Portuguese line was steering on a dead run to meet them.   Ramage looked at them again through his telescope, but they had the sun at their backs, and he couldn't make out much detail against the sunlight. 

The other lieutenants were still in conversation. 

“Those fellows in line are definitely warships,” Hill said.  “But what about the rest?  They can’t _all_ be warships, surely?” 

“I say it’s the Portuguese and the Russians combined,” Martin suggested. 

“Can’t be,” Loach said.  “Even if that is the Russians and the Portuguese together…”

“It’s _still_ too many ships,” Hill finished for him.  "There have to be fifty ships out there now!" 

"That's not a fleet, that's a swarm," Loach agreed.

The Portuguese ships seemed to be sailing in all different directions, as if their sole tactical goal was to slip past the British line like a giant game of Red Rover.  They were rushing off wildly, like a convoy of merchantmen ordered to scatter … 

The truth struck Ramage instantly.  Independent merchant captains, all of them setting their own courses, all racing to get out of the way of the impending battle before it started!

“They’re merchantmen!” 

“Sir?”  Southwick asked. 

“These ones in line are warships – but the rest of them are _all merchantmen!_   All of them!  That must be every ship in Lisbon!”

“But … why?” Southwick said.  “They know we’re waiting for them!” 

“They’re breaking through the blockade, _en masse.”_  

“They're sending the warships to distract us, while the merchantmen go … where?”  Southwick asked.  “Where would the French send a whole fleet of merchantmen?”

“Cadiz?” Kenton said.  “Oporto?”    

“Sir!” Southwick said, pointing out at the horizon.  “That ship!  Don’t we know that ship?” 

Ramage followed his pointing finger. 

Southwick was pointing to one of the merchantmen.  Ramage levelled his telescope, aware that Kenton was doing the same.  The ship flashed into focus inside the dark tunnel of the glass.  He recognised her instantly.    

“That's one of Sidney Yorke’s ships!” Ramage said, aloud. 

“What’s she doing here?” Southwick asked. 

“The Portuguese must have taken her as a prize,” Ramage guessed. 

“Do you think Mr Yorke’s in Lisbon, sir?” Southwick asked. 

“I don’t think so,” Ramage said.  “But that’s definitely a Yorke ship!”  

The ship was too far away to make out colours, but that could only be one of Mr Yorke’s ships.  All of Sidney Yorke’s ships were built to the same plans.  They were almost identical, but for differences in paintwork: each ship had a strake that matched the colour of her name.  

“We’ll take her back for him,” Ramage promised Southwick.  “They have no chance of winning this fight; none whatsoever.” 

 

The merchantmen were irrelevant.  He focused again on the Portuguese fleet.  The enemy warships were coming out to meet the British, head-to-head.  They were all that mattered, right now. 

“Sir!” Bennett called.  His voice was urgent.  “Sir!  The _Solebay_ is signalling!  The lead ship is flying the royal standard, sir!”

“Royal standard?”  Ramage levelled his telescope, and focused on the nearest Portuguese warship. 

The ship in the enemy’s van was a two-decker, larger than the _Dido,_ but far smaller than the _Hibernia_ _._   She was sailing in the van of her fleet, standing gallantly out to meet them with a bone in her teeth.  The red flag was a daring dash of colour against the sky, boldly proclaiming her identity.  

“Sir,” Jackson said, touching his hat.  “I think that’s the _Prince Regent_ , sir.” 

“Yes,” Ramage said.  “It’s his standard.”

“No, sir, begging your pardon, the ship is named the _Prince Regent_.  She’s an eighty-four – built in Brazil.”

A few minutes of conferral gave tentative identities to more of the Portuguese ships.  Ramage was sure the names were being wildly mispronounced – the Portuguese could not have named a ship _Herrick_ – but there was no longer any doubt that these were the Portuguese fleet. 

But the enemy did not seem to care that they were sailing to their destruction.  The enemy line was sailing steadily to their doom, with far more resolution than the French had showed at Trafalgar.  The Portuguese line had luffed up, so that they now sailing on a converging course with the British line.

It was time.  “Mr Kenton!” Ramage said. 

“Sir!” 

“Beat to quarters.” 

“Aye aye sir!” Kenton swung around and screamed the order across the deck through his speaking trumpet.  _“We will beat to quarters!”_

The Marine drum began to hammer.  The cluster of lieutenants broke up, racing to their divisions.  The men who served the carronades – Orsini’s carronades – were racing up the ladder to the poop.  Every man was racing to his designated place in battle. 

Below, the crew would be lashing the tables where they had just eaten to the deckhead.  The cabin screens would be dismantled, all the furniture hustled into the hold.  The boats would be lowered over the side and towed astern so that passing shot did not turn them into showers of splinters.   The magazine was being unlocked, and the gunner and his mates would be passing powder cartridges to the powder-monkeys who would race to the guns.  Below the waterline, Doctor Bowen and his mates and the women would be lashing together a row of the midshipmen’s chests to use as a table, and unrolling the surgeon’s steel tools.  The men would unlash the guns, take out the tompions from the muzzles, making sure that all the equipment for serving the guns were ready at hand.  Others would be spreading sand over the decks to soak up blood, while others would be making sure that the matches were lit and standing ready in case the guns’ firelocks did not spark.  The port lids would be unlatched, ready to be triced up. 

It was the same way the _Dido_ went to quarters every day – but _this_ time would end in action. 

“Hear that, sir?” Kenton said, pointing to his ear. 

Ramage listened.  He could hear other drums.  The rest of the fleet was clearing for action at the same time.  All the ships were preparing to fight.  They would be ordered to shorten sail, soon, Ramage guessed; topsails only.  But the Dido would not shorten sail before ordered, or she would leave a vulnerable gap in the British line. 

Ramage forced himself to stand still and ignore the tumult around him.   The _Dido_ would open fire when her sisters did.  His ship was ready.  Ramage had done his duty, bringing his massive weapon to battle, but now there was nothing more for him to do.  His job was done.  His ship was ready.  He had nothing to do now but stand on his quarterdeck, and wait. 

The two fleets were sailing along the long sides of an acute triangle now, not quite parallel.  They were inching closer with every minute.  Slowly, meticulously, the distance between them would be narrowed, until the enemy was within range.  This was going to be a battle in the old-fashioned style; broadside to broadside in the old line-of-battle, as if the innovations of Trafalgar and the Nile had not happened.  It was going to be a pounding-match; a smashing fight that the Royal Navy would win. 

Paolo would be avenged. 

Ramage’s anger rose like a hot horrible animal inside himself.  The red mist rose in front of his vision.  He felt sick; he wanted to smash something, _anything,_ to let the raging animal of his grief out.  He broke away from Southwick’s side, and crossed to the nearest eighteen-pounder. 

The gun-captain gave way to him, and Ramage knelt down at the gun’s breech and stared over the gun’s lock at the Portuguese flag-ship.  He’d never felt so viscerally the violence that he could unleash; the brutal power stored up under his command.  Paolo would be avenged, Ramage said, watching the Portuguese van over the long barrel of the great gun.  Ramage found his vision tightening, until the Portuguese flagship was all he could see.  He could see the slack rigging; the dashes of bright clothing on her decks, the seamen in her rigging. 

The _Dido_ was going to smash that ship until her masts had all gone, until Portuguese blood ran out of her scuppers, until the enemy flagship was a smoking, sinking wreck…

And then as he watched her, her yards were hauled around, changing her outline. 

“The _Prince Regent’_ s coming about!” Southwick shouted. 

The Portuguese flagship was indeed turning.  She was falling away before the wind, following her head around, steering straight for the British line.  She was cutting off the slow approach lengthwise approach, and striking straight at the British instead, as Nelson did at Trafalgar.  And she had the weather gauge: she was upwind of the British ships.  She was steering straight for the _Hibernia_ _._  

The _Prince Regent_ was trying to do what the _Victory_ had done at Trafalgar – break the line - but she had miscalculated.  Nelson had been supported by his fleet, following on the _Victory’_ s heels, and the _Prince Regent_ was alone.  Every gun in the British line could converge on her.  Their  broadsides would smash the eighty-four into matchwood in minutes. 

 “She’s trying to break the line!” Kenton said. 

“She’s doomed herself!” Ramage said. 

The _Prince Regent_ was racing toward the British fleet, her cutwater flinging up a periodic flash of white foam.  Her bow bit down into the swells like a bull-dog. 

“No,” Ramage said.  “This is wrong.” 

The dread rose up inside him.  The hairs had risen on his neck and arms.  This was wrong; all wrong. This was a trap; a mistake. 

He turned to look at the officers around him.  “This is all wrong,” he said.

“Sir?” Kenton asked. 

“Something’s wrong.  Something’s _wrong.”_  

He stared at the _Prince Regent_.  Something was wrong.  He could feel the trap closing around him.  He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it.  His rage was still blazing inside him, but now his instincts were screaming a warning at him.  This was wrong.  This was a mistake.  This was a trap! 

A moment later, he knew what was wrong. 

“The French are in Lisbon!”

“Yes, sir,” Southwick said.  “And they’ve given them orders to fight.”

“No!” Ramage said.  He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew.  “The French are in Lisbon now!  They weren’t in Lisbon yesterday.  That’s why the Portuguese are here now.  They’re not here to fight!”

He turned and stared at the ships following in the _Dido’_ s wake.  The whole British fleet was ready to open fire on the Portuguese. 

“Oh, God!”  Ramage reeled where he stood.  He reached out and gripped the _Dido’s_ shrouds for support.  All the anger had drained out of him like wine from a sack.  The rage in his stomach had relaxed all at once, leaving him suddenly cold and weak, as if he was feverish.  

He couldn’t stop them.  He couldn’t signal fast enough to reach the Hibernia in time.  He couldn’t prevent what was happening.  There was nothing he could do…

… except…

“I have the conn!” he bellowed.  He saw the astonished look on Kenton and Southwick’s faces.  “Prepare to come about.  Hands to braces!  Wheel hard-a-starboard!  Put us alongside the _Prince Regent!”_  

The men moved as if electrified.  The helmsmen tore at the spokes on the wheel.  The sailtrimmers cast off and hauled the yards around. 

The _Dido_ responded slowly – and then irrevocably, she was out of the line.  His decision was made.  The _Dido_ had turned her massive bulk sharply into the wind, and she was now steering directly for the _Prince Regent_ as close to the wind as she could reach.  Her headsails beginnging to flutter, failing to hold the wind.  She was losing wind, losing speed In this fresh breeze, Ramage knew he was risking taking a gust the wrong way, and falling into irons.  

Ramage shouted his orders, his voice cracking.  He could feel the stares of his officers, but he kept his eye on the _Prince Regent_ , now cutting toward him as if the two ships were racing to meet each other between the two battle fleets.  The ships astern had to veer away, around the _Dido_ ’s stern.  The _Dido_ was setting out alone, leaving the British fleet alone.

“If she falls into irons…!” Southwick groaned. 

“Sir!  Are you _mad?”_ Kenton hissed under his breath.  His face was pale.  “Sir!  Sir, what are you…?”

“I know what I’m doing!” Ramage snapped.  Did he?  He didn’t know.  But his instincts were screaming at him.  He glanced at the _Dido’_ s consorts, now astern.  If he was wrong, he was finished in the Navy; cashiered, court-martialled, disgraced. 

“The _Hibernia_ _!_ ”  Southwick shouted. 

Ramage whirled on his heel and stared up the line of ships. 

The _Hibernia_ was coming about – leaving the line.  Her jib-boom was emerging from the cloud of sails at the van of the British fleet, steering on the same course as the _Dido._   She must have turned at the exact same moment that the _Dido_ did – _Croucher_ giving his orders at the same time that Ramage was giving his.  Croucher had seen what Ramage had seen. 

 “Look at her _go!”_ Southwick said. 

The _Hibernia_ had also abandoned the line of battle.  She was closing on the Prince Regent, as if she wanted to take on the other flagship in single combat. 

“Salute?” Kenton echoed, confused. 

“Look at the Rake, _look at the Rake!”_ Dawlish screamed shrilly.  He was pointing at the _Hibernia_ , one arm stretched out. 

Ramage raised his telecope to his eye, and scanned the _Hibernia_ _’_ s poop.  Her bulwarks were high, making it difficult to see much of the poop.  “I don’t see him?” 

“Sir – on the front!  I mean – out on the pointy bit!”

Ramage twitched the glass across the _Hibernia_ ’s hull, and _there!_

A man was standing up, riding on the end of the bowsprit, balancing lightly.  Even at this distance, Croucher’s bony figure was immediately recognisable.  He was balancing on the bowsprit like a trick rider, staring down the oncoming Portuguese.  He was riding his ship into battle like a knight errant, as if she was alive under him …

The telescope’s eyepiece shivered against Ramage’s eyelashes with the sudden spasm of sympathy.  _He_ had done that!  He _knew_ that feeling!  _He_ had stood on his own ship’s bowsprit, feeling the strength of the ship under him.  He could feel the shivering intensity in Croucher’s body, feel the burning of his eyes.  Down the shadowy tunnel of the telescope, he was alone with Croucher; utterly alone.  “What are you _doing?”_ he whispered to Croucher. 

Far away, he heard Loach’s voice.  “God, Rake!  Don’t twitch, don’t twitch!”

“Yes!  Good idea!” Southwick said, furiously.  “Twitch, damn you!” 

One wobble, and Croucher would tumble off under the cutwater of his own ship and be crushed by hundreds of tons of warship running over him. 

The spell broke.  He lowered the glass, and realized that the hairs on the back of his neck were still standing.  For a moment, he had stood alone with Croucher on the bowsprit of the _Hibernia_ _._    

The _Dido_ and the _Hibernia_ were sailing parallel to meet the _Prince Regent_.  Only two ships, from the whole British line.  The _Prince Regent_ was coming to meet them with a bone in her teeth.  On their course the two ships of the line were bracketing the Portuguese flagship. 

“Sir, she’s signalling!” 

There were flags rising to the _Hibernia_ ’s signal halyard.  They broke.  Only one hoist; only a single number for one of the standard signals in the code book.   

“Two-seven-one-two!” Bennett paged rapidly through the code book.  “Prepare to salute when I do, sir!”

“Acknowledge it!” 

It would be seen by the fleet, too; still astern in the line, in confusion. 

The _Prince Regent_ was still coming on to meet them, bows-on.  She had a white bone in her teeth.  The distance was closing fast.  The _Prince Regent_ was going to pass between the _Dido_ and the _Hibernia_ at near point-blank range.  She would be in the position that the French _Redoutable_ had been in at Trafalgar; bracketed by enemies, fired on from both sides.  The solid shot from the _Hibernia_ and _Dido_ would crash through the _Prince Regent’s_ hull, ruining her from the inside. 

Three minutes… two minutes… one minute… They were passing each other.  The _Prince Regent’s_ rigging was sloppy, her sails were fouled from harbour.  Her masts and sailed blocked out Ramage’s view of the _Hibernia_ _,_ on her other side. 

If they were opening fire, it would be now.  They were going to open fire.  Now… now… any second now… On the _Dido’_ s decks, not a man spoke.  The sea hissed alongside, and the rigging strained, but there was nothing but a long silence. 

The knot in Ramage’s stomach was so tight that it was hard to breath.  He forced himself to stand still, and not to puff his breath out through his mouth.  Any second now, they were open fire on each other.  They were in point-blank range.  Any second now, the _Hibernia_ would open fire… 

And the _Prince Regent_ was slipping astern.  Her gun ports were still closed.  She sailed between her enemies, unscathed.  Not a shot had been fired from either side.   

Ramage gasped, realizing that he had been holding his breath. 

The _Hibernia_ bore away from the wind, at last.  She turned, slowly, slowly – and just as slowly the _Prince Regent_ turned to match her course, as if the two warships were dancing a _pas de deux._   They turned to sail side-by-side between the two fleets. 

A spurt of smoke jetted over the _Hibernia_ ’s bulwarks.  A single thump sounded.   Ramage jerked – but only one gun had fired. 

“She’s opened fire!” little Dawlish squealed. 

“That’s a salute,” Ramage said.   

Somewhere behind him, Ramage heard Jackson’s voice reciting quietly.  “ _If I wasn’t a gunner I wouldn’t be here… fire two.”_ Right on time, there was another spurt of dirty yellow smoke, and another shot. 

“Who _salutes_ an enemy?” Southwick asked, dumbfounded. 

“They’re not an enemy!” Ramage said.  “Bonaparte has been cheated!” 

“I don’t understand,” said Kenton. 

“The wind changed in time!”  Ramage turned around and faced his officers.  “The Portuguese have got out of Lisbon; the French are too late.  The birds have flown the coop today…” 

“Flagship’s signalling, sir!”  Bennett called.  A flag hoist began to climb the _Hibernia_ _’_ s halyard.  Bennett read it off.  “All ships!  To luff, and stand out to sea together, sir!”  

 

 

 


	7. The exiles go to sea

The wind dropped that afternoon.  At four p.m. the _Hibernia_ and the _Prince_ _Royal_ both hoisted signals for their respective fleets, ordering them to heave to.  A boat  immediately went over from the _Prince Royal_ to the _Hibernia_ _._

“Can’t blame ‘em for wanting to talk,” Southwick said.  “We won’t get to Brazil on hope and hand signals.”

“If we’re going to Brazil at all,” Ramage warned.  "We can't all go. The Commander-in-Chief at Gibraltar will think we’ve disappeared off the face of the earth.”

That idea seemed to amuse Southwick.  “Can’t be having that, sir,” the old master agreed.

Ramage and Southwick were standing on the poop, gazing at the fleet in the afternoon light.  The combined fleet had sailed far from Lisbon before heaving to.  The breeze still came from the east, so the whole fleet hove to, and simply drifted out to sea like so many floating coconuts. 

“Sir,” Martin called.  “The _Hibernia_ is signalling, sir.  All captains to report on board the flag as soon as convenient.”

“Thank you, Mr Martin.  Please have my boat hoisted out,” Ramage said. 

“Already ordered, sir,” Martin said.  

Stafford rowed Ramage over to the _Hibernia_ , and the _Dido_ ’s boat joined a queue of other boats waiting to hook onto the _Hibernia_ ’s main chains.  Ramage reached the deck, his hand already at his hat.  He was met by the usual blast of piping and saluting.  The sideboys were going to tire themselves out, he thought, welcoming sixteen ships’ captains one after the other. 

Even the _Hibernia_ ’s huge quarterdeck looked crowded with uniforms and gold lace.  The fleet’s captains were standing around in knots of conversation, chatting about that morning’s events.  Ramage paused, taking stock of the crowd.  He saw Captain Walker, talking to Captain Moore and Captain Croucher.  Captain Yeo  and Western were there.  Captain Moore of the _Marlborough_ moved aside to greet Captain Pellew of the _Conqueror ... and there was Paolo Orsini.  
_

Ramage had crossed the deck before he knew he was moving.  Orsini turned to meet him, and Ramage opened his arms, and folded his boy into himself. 

“Paolo,” he said to the side of the boy’s neck.  His boy, safe and warm in Ramage’s arms!  

 _“Zio Nico,”_ Orsini said.  He tugged himself away, and Ramage knew what the boy wanted.  He gripped Paolo's shoulders and pulled him in to plant a kiss on his cheek, and then on his other cheek.   Paolo’s lips were warm on Ramage’s cheek, and his stubble was rough against Ramage’s lips.  

Paolo Orsini, alive and well!  And what a magnificent young man Orsini had become!  He had been a gangling boy when Ramage first met him, tripping over his own feet, getting tangled up in his own signal halyards, and now look at him! How wonderful to have watched that transformation himself!  Ramage looked around at the rest of the quarterdeck, bursting with pride, and stopped short. 

He was surrounded by silent staring eyes.  The eyes of every man on the quarterdeck were fixed on him.  Croucher’s voice scratched into the moment.  “Well, _that’s_ a first," he said. 

“It is a traditional Italian greeting,” Orsini replied, not at all troubled. 

“Do you often give your men traditional Italian greetings, Captain Ramage?” Moore asked. 

“Only the Italians, sir,” Ramage said, before he could stop himself. 

Well, if he didn't have a reputation as a howling eccentric, he would get one now.  Gianna would probably laugh. 

“Be that as it may,” Croucher said.  “I see Mr Cullen is waving to me.  Gentlemen, Sir Sidney is waiting for us.  Shall we adjourn for the great cabin?”

The great cabin of the _Hibernia_ seemed a lot smaller than it had when Ramage was last in it.  It was now crammed with one Admiral, seventeen post-captains, three lieutenants, one master’s mate, and what looked like a Portuguese Army officer.  The decks seemed to creak with the weight of all that seniority. 

Admiral Sir Sidney Smith sat at the head of the table, with the Portuguese officer at his side.  The captains of the fleet filled up the chairs around the long table, and then overflowed into chairs that had clearly been brought up from the wardroom.  Ramage seated himelf a good distance away from Croucher, and Orsini sat behind him. 

“As we all know,” Smith began to speak in a carrying voice, “today the Prince Regent has chosen to evacuate his entire court to Brazil. ”

Smith was forced to pause while the murmur died down.  His brows took on an even steeper arch. 

“Faced with the devil and the deep blue sea,” Smith continued, “Dom Joao has chosen the sea.  His intention is to sail to Rio de Janeiro.  _Our_ intention, gentlemen, is that some of us will escort him to Brazil, while the rest of us return to the Lisbon blockade.”

Which immediately led every captain in the room to hope _he_ would be sailing to Brazil, instead of plugging back and forth across the mouth of the Tagus. 

“The ships which will continue to Brazil are the following: _London_ _, Monarch,_ _Elizabeth_ _,_ _Marlborough_ _, and_ _Bedford_ _._ ”

For the first time, the Portuguese officer spoke up.  He looked across the cabin at Ramage, and spoke to him in Portuguese.  Ramage opened his mouth to apologise that he didn’t understand, but realized just in time that the officer was addressing Orsini, directly behind Ramage. 

He turned around.  Orsini was nodding his head, clearly understanding what was being said to him.  He replied in the same language.  The Portuguese officer turned to Sir Sidney, and spoke to the Admiral in an undertone.  Sir Sidney looked rather surprised.  “And the _Dido.”_   Sir Sidney stared at Ramage.  “By personal request of His Highness.”

A few of the captains turned their heads to stare curiously at Ramage. 

“Your six ships will sail in company with the Portuguese to Brazil,” Sir Sidney said.  “I have taken the liberty of granting Captain Moore his commodore’s pendant for the duration of the voyage – a decision which I hope will meet with agreement from the Admiralty.  I am not giving you any frigates because the Portuguese have their own. We will part company at latitude 37° north, and longitude 14° west – or, in other words, halfway to the Azores.  On the event of the fleet being scattered the rendezvous will be at the island of São Tiago …”

Smith’s voice droned on, and Ramage found his attention wandering.  Orsini spoke Portuguese?  Ramage had not known that.  He glanced over his shoulder.  Orsini was listening to Smith attentively, his dark eyes alert and calm.

How wonderful to have watched this boy grow into a strong poised self-confident young man. Ramage's realization was overwhelming.  He wanted this feeling again.  He wanted to do it all again from the beginning.  He wanted to watch a boy grow up to be a man; to feel this bursting pride all over again…

Suddenly he was _desperate_ for a son of his own. 

The condition of the Portuguese ships is somewhat grim,” Smith said. “The combined convoy is carrying the entire royal family, as well as most of his counsellors and ministers. The _Principe Real_ herself has over a thousand souls on board, and adequate provisions for only a month. We tried to persuade the Prince Regent to sail in the _Hibernia_ , but he refused.  I gather that would send a politically undesirable message.”

Someone snorted in mockery.

Smith ignored the snort. “They have however appealed to us for assistance. I have here a list of the material shortcomings of the Portuguese fleet. Water, provisions, wood, cordage, spare spars … The Portuguese have asked us to lend them such stores as we can spare. Captain Moore, I leave that up to you and your squadron..."

 There was a heaving movement under the deck.  The wind had gusted.  Ramage’s eyes went up to the deckhead, instinctively.  The _Hibernia_ ’s sails had filled up with a sudden gust, pushing her over to leeward.  He could hear the commands of the officers up on the poop deck, and hear the drumming of bare feet over his head.  The crew were trimming her sails to meet the new breeze.  Already the water was beginning to trundle under the hull. 

Ramage looked down, and met Croucher’s eyes. Croucher had instinctively looked up at the deckhead as he felt the ship move, and by coincidence he had looked down at exactly the same instant as Ramage.  Their eyes seemed to collide. 

Croucher looked away immediately, but again, that little shock of sympathy made the hairs on the back of Ramage’s neck rise.  The same thought had clearly passed through Croucher’s mind.  Croucher could feel the heartbeat of his ship under him, just as Ramage could feel the _Dido._

Smith had looked up as well.  “I think the wind has come about.  Gentlemen, I wish you Godspeed on your journey.  Captain Moore, a few words, if you will.  That will be all.” 

There was a brief scrimmage at the door, as the captains tried to file out on the order of seniority.  Ramage stayed in his chair, aware that Orsini was doing the same.  He wanted to talk to Moore. 

“The wind is coming from the west again, sir,” Orsini said.

“You got out of Lisbon in the nick of time,” Ramage said.  “How many ships do you count, Paolo?” 

 “I counted fifty-six, sir,” Orsini said.  “And thirty of them warships.”

 “Quite impressive.” 

“You looked very impressive too,” Orsini said.  “I was on the flagship’s quarterdeck.”

“The _Prince Regent?”_ Ramage queried. 

“The _Principe Real,_ sir,”  Orsini corrected.  “The one with the royal standard flying.” 

“Good God!”  Ramage had been planning to concentrate his guns on the very deck on which Paolo was standing.  A picture flashed into his mind, of the _Principe Real,_ dismasted and burning the way Ramage had wanted her. 

There was no time for Orsini to make a reply.  Walker strolled over.  "There you are, Ramage," the Scot said.  He turned a chair around, and sat down facing them both, stretching out his legs in front of him.  He pushed back the front of his heavy coat with one hand, and rested the fist on his hip; opposite elbow propped on the armrest.  The lazy pose made him look like a prosperous laird sitting at his hearth, rather than a tough King’s officer.  "You're coming with us to Brazil, then," Walker said to Ramage.

"It looks like we are," Ramage agreed.  "Thanks to Mr Orsini here."

"I think I made a good impression on the Prince," Orsini said.

"I didn’t know you spoke Portuguese,” Ramage said to Orsini.  

“Oh, I don’t speak it,” Orsini said. 

“You just did!  We both heard you!” Walker said. 

“I can only _just_ follow what they are saying," Orsini said. 

“Yes, but when you left you didn’t speak it at all,” Ramage said.  He’d known that Orsini had a talent for languages – but to learn one in three days put him into a whole new league.  

A voice broke in.  “Captain Ramage!” 

Ramage looked around.  Sir Sidney Smith had come to the door of the great cabin, and was staring at him. “A word with you in my day cabin, if you please!”  the Admiral ordered. 

“Of course, sir,” Ramage replied, getting up from his chair.  He followed Sir Sidney into the Admiral’s day cabin. 

“Close the door,” Sir Sidney said. 

“Aye aye, sir.”  Ramage closed it, surprised by the harsh tone of Sir Sidney’s voice.  He turned around to face Smith. 

Smith’s back was rigid, and his eyes were not friendly.  He folded his arms over his chest, and his arrogant gaze seemed to pin Ramage like a hawk. "You left the line," Smith said. 

"Yes, sir."

"How did you know to do that?"

"I didn't know, sir.  I guessed." 

"You _guessed,"_ Smith said. 

"Yes, sir."

"How did you know that the _Hibernia_ would turn when you did?"

"I didn't, sir."

"You left your place in the line, you abandoned my orders, and you ignored the Fighting Instructions!"  Smith shook his head.  "This has worked out _this_ time, Ramage, but it won't be tolerated again, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." 

"Lord Nelson might have tolerated your high-handed behaviour, but I won't.  Your reputation doesn't impress me in the slightest!  And the Rake is a very old friend.”

  _Uh-oh._   Ramage felt his spine stiffen.  "Sir, whatever he has been telling you, I deny all of it.”  He kept his voice level. 

“Don’t be disingenuous with me, Ramage,”  Sir Sidney said.  “Let me be clear.  I don’t trust your truce.  I don’t trust _you,_ Captain _Lord_ Ramage.”

“Sir!” Ramage said, nettled.   _“I_ won’t break Captain Croucher’s truce before _he_ does!  I agreed to it over the dinner table, and I keep my word!” 

“I don’t believe you,” Smith said.  “The Rake is too trusting for his own good. I’ve seen him be attacked too many times, and now my patience is exhausted." 

“I have never attacked Captain Croucher!"  Ramage said. 

“I don’t _care,”_ Smith said.  “Captain Croucher is under my protection. _He_ might have the self-preservation of a duckling, but _I_ am an eagle. Be warned, Ramage. If you use the Rake’s good nature against him, I will crush you.”

Sir Sidney did not move a muscle, or raise his voice. A fighting admiral did not need to shout in order to threaten.

"And the same goes for Jonathan Loach. I know perfectly well that you have him in your ship. ” 

“Loach?”  Ramage blurted. 

“If you think you can get at the Rake through his protege, you are _wrong._ Do we understand each other?” 

“Yes, sir,” Ramage said. 

"I'm glad you're going to Brazil," Smith said.  "Having the fleet torn between the two of you is a recipe for disaster!  I've been trying to think of a way to get rid of the _Dido_ for weeks, and now I don't have to." 

Smith reached for the door himself, pulled it open, and was gone a moment later. 

He left Ramage standing open-mouthed with surprise.

* * *

 

Ramage brought Orsini back to a delighted greeting.  He’d been spotted from a distance, sitting alongside Ramage in the _Dido_ ’s boat, and the side-party seemed to have been supplemented with half of the ship’s officers, lining the rails as if they’d never seen him before.  All of the officers seemed to want to shake Orsini’s hand, or slap him on the back.  He was surrounded by a scrum of lieutenants and midshipmen as soon as his feet reached the _Dido’_ s gangway. 

“Mr Kenton,” Ramage called to the first lieutenant. 

“Sir,” Kenton said.  He turned away from the mob around Orsini, shaking his head as if remembering that he still had a job to do. 

“Please inform Mr Loach I want a word with him.” 

“Aye aye, sir.” 

Ramage went around the ship’s wheel to his own cabin.  He took off his hat, and sat down behind his desk.

He didn’t have long to wait.  The sentry announced Loach’s arrival, and Loach came into the cabin. “Sir,” Loach said, touching his forehead.  He was tall enough that he had to duck to walk under the deck beams. 

“Have a seat, Mr Loach.” 

Loach sat down, subtly moving his chair so that the scarred side of his face was turned as far from Ramage as possible while still being polite.  “You asked to see me, sir?”

“Captain Croucher is a friend of yours.” 

"Oh, hell," Loach blurted. "He told you that?"

“He did not!”  Ramage barked.  “I had to hear it from Sir Sidney Smith! Why does the Swedish Knight know more about my own officers than I do?”  

“Sir!” Loach said.  “I thought it best to keep my mouth shut.”

 _“Keep your mouth shut?”_   Ramage let his voice drop to a quieter tone, condensing his anger into a cold voice.  He felt as if cold water was running through his veins; the winter waters of betrayal.  “I take a _very_ dim view of my officers intriguing against me!”   

“It’s not like that, sir!” Loach protested. 

“Then what is it, Mr Loach?” 

“Sir!”  Loach shot to his feet, remembering at the last instant to bend before he cracked his skull.  “I knew people would jump to conclusions if they knew I were friends with the Rake!  And here I am, defendin’ meself against accusitions – against accumations  – !  Aaah!” 

Ramage knew the feeling of being so angry that you tripped over your own tongue.  His own problems with pronouncing his R’s would probably never go away.  “Sit down, man!”  Ramage said.  

“No, sir!” Loach protested. 

“Yes!”  Ramage insisted.  “Sit down and untangle your tongue!” 

“No, sir!”  Loach said, but he sat down anyway.  He was not refusing to _sit,_ Ramage realized; he was refusing to _stop._   There was the problem with older lieutenants.  Loach was old and tough.  Kenton or Martin would have been reduced to blenching silence if he’d spoken to _them_ with such anger.  But Loach was not intimidated by a captain ten years _younger_ than he was.

“This is _exactly_ why I never told anyone," Loach said.  "I knew people would jump to conclusions!”

“Aloysius Croucher is no friend of mine.”   

“I know that, sir!” Loach said, stubbornly.  “But he’s a friend of _mine!_   I’m sorry, sir, but there it is!”  His eyes were stubborn.  

Ramage sat back, and stared at Loach.  Ramage didn’t know whether he was more angry that he was being defied, or amazed  that anyone would defy him on behalf of _Croucher,_ of all bloody people.  He guessed at the reason for Loach’s behaviour in the very next instant. 

“I suppose _he_ gave you your step up to the quarterdeck?” 

“Yes, sir,” Loach admitted.  “Made me up to master’s mate, taught me my navigation, and then put my name forward for the examination.  He's a good man.  He's a good _friend,_ sir.”    

“Damn you,” Ramage said, irritably.  "Your friend is one of my worst enemies!"  

“I can understand if you don’t want me in your ship any longer,” Loach said.  He looked stubborn.  “I’ll write you my resignation, if you want it.” 

Ramage looked at him, shocked.   “I never said I wanted your resignation!” 

Loach shook his head.  “If this is the end of my career, then it is.”

“No!” Ramage said, with a chopping-down gesture of his hand.  “Absolutely not!” 

“I was a farrier before I went to sea, and I can be a farrier again.  I don’t need the Navy, sir.”

“Yes, but the Navy needs _you!_    I won’t put a good officer on the beach because I don’t like his connections!  It’s not _you_ I have a problem with.  It’s him.  I don’t trust him an inch.” 

“Then we are at an impasse, sir.”

“Yes, we are.”  Ramage began to rub the scars above his head. 

The rules of patronage in the Navy were simple in design, but infinitely complex in execution.  Senior officers gave advancement to their proteges, with the understanding that when the proteges were seniors themselves they would return the favour to their patron’s friends.  Croucher had pushed Loach up the ladder, and  Loach owed loyalty to Croucher.  

That was how the Navy _worked._   The cycle turned, and the pool of talent orbited around itself.  When good officers climbed up that ladder, great things happened, like the Hood, Saumarez, or Ramage families.  When idiots climbed up it, Jedediah Goddard happened. 

At the same time, Ramage knew, he was not prepared to cement the old feud into another generation.  The feud between Goddard and Ramage’s father had begun before he had been born, and the old system of patronage had kept it winding along decades after both antagonists had retired from the sea.  Ramage was not prepared to blight another generation with it.  He rubbed at the scars on his brow, thoughtfully.

“I have good reason not to trust Captain Croucher.”

"I know, sir.  I've heard." 

“But _you_ won’t be worse off for it.  I agreed to a truce with Captain Croucher.  As long as he keeps _his_ end of the bargain, I'll keep mine.  I won't cause strife until _he_ does."

“He won't, sir,” Loach said.  “He keeps his word.” 

“But if I find you’ve been feeding him ammunition against my ship … my officers… _your shipmates...!”_     

"I won't, sir," Loach said.  "He wrote me, and told me not to get involved.  He's a good bloke.  I don't know how the two of you got off to such a bad start, but if you'll trust him a bit you'll find out he's not that bad!" 

“That’s quite enough, Mr Loach!” Ramage said.  “You’re dismissed.” 

“Aye aye, sir.” 

Loach climbed back up to his feet.  He saluted, and departed, leaving Ramage staring at the chair where he had been sitting.

No wonder the Admiral in Portsmouth had been so circumspect about where Loach had come from!  The Admiral knew perfectly well the bad blood between Croucher and Ramage – how the hell had he thought the truth would never come out? 

A 'good bloke?' Ramage wondered, incredulous.  What kind of man thought Aloysius Croucher was a _good bloke?_

 


	8. Passengers

The next morning, the wind was still holding steadily from the southwest.  The fleet’s sails looked like delicate pink shells as the rising sun found them.  The fleet  was now standing out toward the north, as if they wanted to sail to Canada instead of Brazil.  Once they were well off the Portuguese coast, they could come about, and start working their way down toward South America.

Ramage stood at the stern-lights and looked out.  The Portuguese warships gave Ramage a little shock of wrongness, every time he saw them.  They looked antagonistic – alien – prickly – and yet they were not his enemies.  He had never in his career sailed so close to a foreign warship without preparing for immediate action.  The absence of violence felt strange. 

Had the Combined Fleet before Trafalgar felt like this, he wondered?  Two great sea-faring rivals, sailing side-by-side on the same mission, fighting together but instinctively prickling away from each other?   At least the Combined Fleet had shared a signal book, Ramage thought.  At the moment, the only way for the British and the Portuguese to communicate was by sailing alongside and shouting. 

Ramage turned away from the stern-lights. 

 “It feels odd to sail with strangers without fighting,” he said to Jackson, who was sitting at the table behind him. 

“You would not make a good diplomat, sir,” Jackson said.

“I don’t _aspire_ to make a good diplomat,” Ramage said.  “I’ve never met a diplomat yet who didn’t make me want to count my fingers after a handshake.” 

“True, sir,” Jackson said.  “Anyway, I reckon that’s it, sir.  The purser says we can feed them all, if we're careful with the rations.  We'll be all right, as long as we're only going as far as Brazil, and not all the way to the Cape.”

“Good.” 

It would be impossible to ask Portuguese aristocrats to sling hammocks on the lower deck with six hundred seamen, so cabins were being knocked together on the orlop deck.  They would also not be able to have cots build, and Ramage had already ordered the sailmaker and his mates to start making hammocks.  The Regulations and Instructions forbade him from using a good sail for any purpose other than the one for which the Navy had paid – but Southwick had kept a few old condemned sails aside for emergencies.  Today Ramage was using up the Master’s hoard all at once. 

Jackson lined up the papers in front of him and tapped them into a square with his fingertips. "Permission to speak freely, sir?" 

Ramage looked at him, amused. "Since when do _you_ not speak freely?" 

"In that case, sir, permission to poke my nose into things that are none of my business?" 

"Oh, spit it out, man!"

"What's going on with our friend in the _Hibernia_ , sir?"

"You're right. It _is_ none of your business." 

"Nonetheless, the question stands, sir."

"Are you making it your business?" 

"I am.  I have.  It is.  I _think_ you know that." 

Ramage had not been alone in Bastia, he reminded himself.  Jackson had sailed with him since 1796; Jackson had also been in Bastia, when Croucher had accused Ramage of cowardice.  Jackson had even volunteered to give evidence in that trial, deliberately putting himself in harm's way to help Ramage.  If anyone in the ship had the right to ask about Croucher, it was Jackson.

"I suppose the whole ship also knows about Mr Loach?" Ramage asked.

"He walked into the wardroom, and announced it himself.  The officers were not best pleased." 

"He's not an easy man to intimidate." 

"That, he is not," Jackson agreed. 

"You're heard about the truce?"

"I've heard about it, sir.  Do you trust it?" 

"I don't know," Ramage said.  "I don't trust the Rake, but I don't know what his gambit is.  It almost sounds like a friendly overture - but at the same time this is _Croucher_ we're talking about."

"He tried to kill you."

"Twice," Ramage said.   Ramage found his fingers rising to his throat, where the noose would have rested. 

"Perhaps he's trying to make amends, sir," Jackson said. 

“Amends?”

"Maybe he's feeling guilty?"  Jackson said.  "Maybe he finally looked at himself in the mirror?  That can change a man."  

"I find that hard to believe," Ramage said.  "It is human nature to hate the one you have hurt." 

"It's also human nature to feel guilty, sir," Jackson said, quietly.  He dropped his gaze down to the papers on the table in front of him.  "And guilt can change a man.  Guilt can rip your soul apart from the inside out.  There's nothing worse than guilt.  Worse  than grief, even, because you deserve every minute of it ..."  He gazed down at the papers in front of him as if he didn't see them.  _"Mea culpa_ and all that..." 

Ramage looked down at Jackson in surprise.  There was the sound of truth in Jackson's voice, in his dropped gaze.  "What have _you_ done to feel guilty about?" 

He regretted the question as soon as he'd said it.   Jackson might have poked his nose into Ramage's business, but he had not expected Ramage to reciprocate.   Ramage saw the curtain fall over Jackson's expression.  Jackson clammed up like an oyster any time he was asked about his past. 

"I want you to pass the word to the lower deck for me," Ramage said.  "Mr Loach is an officer in this ship.  Anyone who thinks he can fight _my_ battles for me by being obstreperous to Mr Loach will answer to _me."_

"I'll pass the word, sir." Jackson said. 

He picked up his straw hat, and gathered up his papers in his other hand.  His voice, when he spoke, was crisp and businesslike; himself again.  “With your permission, Captain, I’d like to take these plans to the Carpenter now?” 

“Very well,” Ramage said.  “When Mr Southwick and the purser are done with working out the provisions, send them to me and I’ll sign off on them.”

When Jackson was gone, Ramage took his telescope down from its place, and walked out onto the stern gallery.  He pulled out the telescope’s tubes, leaned his hip on the rail to steady himself, and aimed the lens at the Portuguese fleet. 

The _Principe Real_ was right at the head of the Portuguese fleet.  The royal standard at her masthead flickered like a flame.  Her captain was taking some pains to ensure that she stayed in the van, leading her consorts and not followingthem.  She was crowded with a thousand souls. 

Yesterday one of those souls had been Paolo Orsini. 

Croucher had saved Paolo’s life.  Croucher had taken a risk, taking his ship unsupported so close to the enemies line.  But if Croucher had not done what he did, the _Dido_ would have fired into the _Principe Real_.   Ramage would have sent a full broadside smashing into the ship carrying Paolo.  That mental image flashed into Ramage’s mind again – the _Principe Real_ ’s hull succumbing to the sea, wreckage swirling in the water, and Paolo among that wreckage… 

Nobody knew it but Ramage, but he owed a debt to Croucher that he could not repay. 

* * *

 

Later that day, boats put out from the Portuguese ships towards the British ships that were going to Brazil.  The _Dido_ was gaining passengers. 

Paolo Orsini found himself at the gangway, ready to welcome them aboard.  The sea was high enough that landsmen would probably find it terrifying, and the captain had given orders that the bosun’s chair should be rigged to bring the passengers aboard.  Orsini’s duty would be to oversee the business of hoisting the passengers in over the side like so many bundles of vegetables, and then use his fledgeling Portuguese to make them welcome. 

The first passenger arrived, swung high over the bulwark.  As soon as the Portuguese man’s feet reached the deck securely, he stepped forward and greeted him.  He  welcomed him to the _Dido,_ and found out his name, and then passed him to a waiting midshipman to take them below. 

 _“Allora_ , that seems simple enough,” he said to himself, rubbing his palms together.  “Today I am the _maître d'hôtel.”_  

The next passenger followed, and the next, with little problem.  The bosun’s chair swung in and out, efficiently, and the _Dido_ ’s first boatload of passengers was soon aboard without any trouble.  The last two passengers from that boat followed Midshipman Pattinson away, and Orsini had a moment to walk over to the bulwark to look over the side. 

The first boat, empty, had already shoved off and was rowing away.  The second was working its way toward the _Dido_ over the swells like a determined beetle clambering over laundry.  

“No time for you to rest,” he told Rossi and Stafford.  “Another ten are coming, there.”  He pointed toward the next boat. 

“Are those jokers Army officers, sir?” Stafford asked, obediently hauling on the rope to raise the empty chair but nodding toward the group of Portuguese following Pattinson down the main hatch.  He belayed the rope, so that the chair would stay where it was until the boat reached the _Dido_. 

“Yes – three colonels, I think.  So we must be polite."  

“Foreign colonels, innit?” Stafford said, dismissively.  “Everyone knows a foreign officer ain’t as good as a British one.”

“Why don’t you tell Jacko that,” Rossi said, annoyed, “and see if he knocks in any of your teeth?” 

“’Ang on, mate,” Stafford said, mildly.  “Jacko was _born_ English.  ‘E’s _still_ English, _really_.” 

Rossi laughed.  "Tell Jacko _that,_ and he _will_ knock in your teeth!”   

“And me?” Orsini asked Stafford. 

“Blimey, sir!  _You_ ain’t foreign!”  Stafford said. "You're almost English!" 

Rossi rolled his eyes.  “ _Uffa!_ ” he said to Orsini, in Italian.  _“Signore,_ I believe that our companion divides the entirety of mankind into foreigners and nice people.”

“Nearly,” Orsini said, looking at Stafford, but speaking to Rossi.  “I believe he divides all mankind into foreigners and _Londoners._    You and I have become honorary Londoners.”

“You’re talkin’ about me,” Stafford said to Rossi, suspiciously.  

“Only _good_ things,” Rossi promised, with a grin. 

The next boat was coming alongside.  Orsini cupped his hands around his mouth and hailed down at the boat as loudly as he could.  They answered, and hooked on.  A minute later a man was climbing aboard.  He had managed to scramble up the _Dido’_ s side using the manropes, not the boatswain’s chair. 

It was the officer from Sir Sidney Smith’s council of war yesterday.  Orsini stepped forward to meet him, prepared to use his clumsy Portuguese a second time. 

“ _Boa tarde_ ,” he said, bowing with a suitably Latin flourish. 

“Good morning,” the Portuguese officer greeted in return, bowing back.  He smiled at the astonished expression on Orsini’s face.  His smile crinkled up the sardonic crow’s feet around his black eyes.  “Yes, sir, I do indeed speak English.  His Highness desires me to place myself at your service as a translator.” 

Orsini realized that he had been staring, and jerked himself out of his trance.  “May I introduce myself?” he said.  “My name is Count Paolo Orsini di Volterra.  Master’s mate in His Britannic Majesty’s navy.” 

“I have the honour to be _Capitão_ Dom Rodrigo do Ribeiro, at your service.”  Dom Rodrigo bowed.  His face was lean and saturnine, and his black eyes were reserved.  All he lacked was a turban, and he would have passed as a Saracen.  

“Your servant, sir,” Orsini said, returning the bow.  He wasn’t sure of Portuguese ranks yet, but he was almost sure that Dom meant a Lord, or at least a Sir.  “In just a minute or so, the rest of your companions will be joining us.  Then Midshipman Pattinson can lead you below to where you will be accommodated until Brazil.”

“Thank you, but I would be obliged if I could be introduced to your captain as soon as possible.” 

“Of course,” Orsini agreed.  “As soon as the exigencies of the service permit me.” 

‘The exigencies of the service’ – he liked that phrase!  It sounded so very crisp and professional, when what it _really_ meant was _‘No.’_   Ah, Englishmen!

Dom Rodrigo bowed.  “I understand, Count Orsini.  Allow me to assist you with your introductions as my countrymen come into your ship?” 

 “ _Obrigada!_ ” Orsini said. 

“ _Obrigado_ ,” Dom Rodrigo corrected, mildly, with another bow.

Orsini turned to greet the next passenger.  He stepped forward as the Portuguese man was swung down to the deck in the boatswain’s chair, and clambered awkwardly to his feet.  Orsini bowed, and introduced himself, and welcomed the man to the ship, and he was gratified to hear Dom Rodrigo take up the part of his recital that dealt with Midshipman Pattinson. 

Orsini greeted each passenger, and Dom Rodrigo assisted, and the passengers were soon going down the ladder to the lower deck.  It was considerably easier to speak to them with Dom Rodrigo’s assistance to support his wonky pronunciation.   In a few minutes the passengers were gone, and he turned to Dom Rodrigo. 

“Would you like to meet the Captain now?  I’ll introduce you.”

 Ramage had been staring at the _Hibernia_ when Orsini came up at his side.  He turned around, to find Orsini touching his forehead.  There was a man right behind Orsini, listening, and Ramage recognised the Portuguese officer who had been at Sir Sidney’s council of war. 

“Sorry to interrupt, Captain,” Orsinis said.  “May I introduce Dom Rodrigo do Ribeiro?  Dom Rodrido, Captain Nicholas Ramage, RN.” 

“Captain,” Dom Rodrigo said.  He took a step forward to meet Ramage, and bowed. 

Ramage stared at him.  A man with four R’s in his name!  Oh, God, he knew with absolute certainty that somehow, sooner or later, he was going to make a horrible hash of this man’s name.  He could almost feel the R’s getting ready to wobble into W’s in his mouth. 

He took refuge in his oldest tactic: hiding from the problem consonant.  “Sir,” he drawled, and bowed, guessing that the Portuguese would not be receptive to handshakes. 

“Your servant, sir,” Dom Rodrido said, in English – explaining why Orsini had found it necessary to bring this officer aft in the first place.  He bowed back to Ramage.  “His Highness desired me to place myself at your disposal as a translator, as he understood that Count Orsini is your only officer with a working command of Portuguese.” 

“In that case, we’re honoured to have your services,” he said.

“The honour is mine,” Dom Rodrigo said.  “I’m delighted to be of service to an officer whose exploits I’ve heard so much about.  Five million francs is a considerable sum of money.” 

Five million francs?  Ramage wondered.  _What_ five million francs?  Had he caused five million francs of damage to the French cause?  “I’m flattered, _senhor_ ,” Ramage said.  

“Would you excuse me?” Ramage said.  “Mr Orsini will show you to your accommodation.” 

“Of course,” Dom Rodrigo bowed again, obliging Ramage to return it.   

“If you’ll come this way, Dom Rodrigo,” Orsini said, “We’ve separated the singletons from the married couples … I’m sure you’ll be comfortable…” 

  “Sir,” the midshipman of the watch said, reporting more loudly than he needed to, so that Ramage could hear him.  “That ship you called the _Amethyst_ is closing with us.”

Martin pulled his telescope out from under his arm and marched quickly to the rail.  He levelled the glass.  “So she is,” he said.  “Captain, sir.  The _Amethyst_ looks like she wants to pass within hail.” 

Ramage turned away.   “My telescope, if you please, Mr Dawlish,” he said, walking quickly to the leeward rail, so that the officers there moved quickly out of his way.   

The glass was put into his hand. Ramage extended the tubes and levelled the glass on the _Amethyst._  

 She was sailing close-hauled, trying to come up to windward toward the British ships.  The Union Jack fluttered proudly from her masthead.  She was pitching heavily in the stiff south-wester, each dip of her cutwater sending a crisp white wave out around her bow.  She was coming along at a nice speed; sign of a clean bottom, he thought.  She closed on the formal British line over the next few minutes. 

All of the Yorke ships were exactly alike, carrying the same rigging, the same calibre guns, and fully interchangeable sails and spars.  Yorke claimed he saved a great deal of money that way – ‘economies of scale’ he declared, assuming that Ramage understood what that meant.  The only differences between Yorke’s ships were the colour of their hulls.  The _Amethyst_ ’ was a rich purple. 

Ramage could see a familiar figure standing along the rail.  The man took off his hat, revealing tawny brown hair.  He waved his hat at the _Dido._  

Ramage laughed aloud.  “Sidney Yorke!  How the blazes did you get here?  I thought you were in Canada!”   He took off his own hat, and waved it back, knowing that Yorke would see him.  

Were those women there with him?  Yes, those were women, wearing dresses and holding parasols against the sunlight.  Ramage couldn’t see much detail at this distance, but those were undoubtably female figures. He turned the focusing rings of the telescope anyway, trying for a better look.  He could see skirts flapping in the breeze.  He even thought he could see the hint of bosoms, although at this distance that had to be his imagination unless they were huge bosoms. 

There were compensations for being a merchant captain, he thought, glumly.  Sidney Yorke _always_ seemed to have women in his ships. 

 The Amethyst was closing, coming up alongside the Dido, reminding RAmage sharply of just how slowly the Dido was sailing these days.  Within a few minutes the Amethyst was close enough that Ramage could see Yorke raise his speaking-trumpet to his mouth.  

_"Ahooooy!"_ His voice was distant. 

Ramage reversed the trumpet, wedging the narrow end into his ear, and cursing his Trafalgar Ears.  He could just make out Yorke's voice. 

_"Dinner ... Three o'clock... Southwick ... Bowen... Officers... Welcome..."_

Ramage raised his hat and waved it over his head again, agreeing to the invitation. 

* * *

 

As the _Amethyst_ sailed away, Hill and Martin stood on a quiet corner of the poop deck.  Both officers had their telescopes pressed to their eyes, watching the _Amethyst_ bear away. 

“That ship is carrying women,” Martin said.  He lowered his telescope, and looked around.  “Orsini, come and have a look, old chap!  Before she goes out of sight again!” 

Orsini walked up behind them, and stood looking over the rail. 

“Those were _definitely_ women!” Hill said, as if he’d spotted a rare and delightful sea creature. 

“I counted six,” Martin said.  “They were waving, did you see?” 

“They were waving at the captain, not at you,” Orsini pointed out. 

“Ah, they always go for the gold lace first,” Martin sighed. 

“Isn’t that always the way?” Hill sympathised. 

“There are women _here_ too,” Orsini observed. 

“Ah, yes, but _these_ ones are all married,” Martin said.  “And fat, and Catholic." 

 _"I"m_ Catholic!" Orsini protested.  

"You're also not a woman,"  Hill said. 

“I don’t see the fascination with staring at the _Amethyst_ just because there _might_ be women in her.”

“Because they’re _women!_ ” Martin said, as if mystified. 

“So?”  Orsini asked, spreading his palms out in mystification of his own.  “Women are just female men.  My _aunt_ is a woman!  _Nuns_ are women!” 

“Oh, you poor sweet innocent child,” Martin said, shaking his head. 

“Poor little Catholic boy," Hill said.  “You’re still young.  You’ll change your mind one day, you’ll see.” 

“I certainly hope not.” 

“Yes, you will.  One day, you’ll meet a girl, and you'll look at her, and you'll say to yourself, I like that.  And then you’ll want to marry her so that you can look at her all day long.” 

“And Joe and I will be at the back of the church at your wedding saying, ‘we told you so,’” Martin said. 

“This is true, Mr Martin.” 

"Very true, Mr Hill." 

Hill nodded at Martin, Martin nodded at Hill, and the two lieutenants smirked at Orsini together. 

“I know who I’m going to marry,” Orsini said, waving their silly comments away,  “and I don’t like her at all.”

“How do you know?” Hill said, clearly not believing him.  "You haven't met her yet."

“I have met her!  Her name is Louise!  She is a cousin of the King of Naples – a Bourbon.”  

The next boat was approaching, he saw.  He had to get back to the gangway soon. 

There was a silence at his side.  He turned away from his examination of the Portuguese boat to find out why Martin and Hill had gone quiet so suddenly.  They were both staring at him with expressions of amazement. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked.   

“You’re _engaged?_ ” Martin said.  He sounded genuinely shocked. 

“I have been engaged since I was fifteen.  I don’t like her,” Orsini added, “but I am going to marry her.”

“What about choosing a fiancee you do like?”  Martin said. 

“She was chosen for me.  My aunt arranged it with the King of Naples.” 

“That’s _terrible!”_ Martin said. 

“It’s perfectly normal,” Orsini said.  "Why are you staring at me like that?"

“Because that’s terrible!” Hill said.  “What about romance?  What about love?” 

“Things are different for royalty!” Orsini said, startled by how annoyed he felt.  There was no reason for them both to look at him as if he was being hard-done-by!  Did they think arranged marriages stopped in the Middle Ages?  It was all perfectly normal!  

“I am not _technically_ royal, but Volterra is in independent country.  Naples and Volterra have many interests in common.   It’s a good match.”

“But you don’t even _like_ her!” 

“We don’t have to like each other,” Orsini said.  “You don’t think the Prince Regent and Carlota Joaquina like each other, do you?”

Martin huffed.  “I heard they _hate_ each other.”

“It is a political alliance, that is all, between Volterra and Naples.  I don’t want to get married, but it is all perfectly sensible.  But,” Orsini added, “I will only need to marry Louise if my aunt does not produce a child of her own first."

"That's a big if." 

"If she does, _allora,_ I won’t inherit, and then I do not need to get married at all.  The King of Naples will call off the marriage.  Louise is too valuable.” 

“But your aunt hasn’t produced a child,” Hill said.  He glanced at Martin.  "Not even with Captain Ramage.  There are rumours that she can't..."

“And if Lady Sarah has a child, then everyone will know my aunt is barren.  Then I will inherit, and then I must marry,” Orsini said.  He shook his head.  “My aunt must hurry up, and pick a husband!  How hard can it be to just choose one?  _Accidente,_ these women!”


	9. Carpe puellam

Later that afternoon Ramage and his officers climbed down into his boat. Stafford hoisted the boat’s sail, and they bounded away across the sea toward the _Amethyst._ A few minutes later, Ramage climbed up the _Amethyst_ ’s side, and stepped over the break in the bulwark. Yorke was waiting for him.

“Afternoon, Sidney,” Ramage said, greeting Yorke with a grin and a handshake.  "I thought you were in Canada!"

"I've been in Lisbon for weeks!"  Yorke grinned.  "I thought you were in the West Indies."

"I've been outside Lisbon for weeks," Ramage laughed.  He looking around, as Southwick, Hill and Martin climbed up behind him.

"Hello, Mr Southwick.  How do you do, sir, and Mr Hill – ah, and Mr Martin, too!  Welcome aboard!”

“I have brought my flute, sir,” Martin said, lifting a long leather case in his hand. “I was told your guests have to sing for their suppers."

“There’s someone here I’d like you to meet,” Yorke said. He turned around with an expansive gesture. “Nicholas, may I present my first mate. I believe you know him?” 

The young man behind Yorke was short, and plump, with a round face like an apple.  He was grinning with pleasure.

“George Appleby!” Southwick blurted, and laughed with delight.

“Hello, Mr Southwick!” George Appleby said, coming forward and shaking Southwick’s hand. “Captain Ramage!”

“What on earth are you doing here, Mr Appleby?” Ramage said, shaking Appleby’s hand.

“Found myself on half pay after Trafalgar, sir, so Mr Yorke offered me a berth.”

“You poached my officer, Sidney!” Ramage accused.

“Finder’s keepers, Nick!” Yorke said. “ _Carpe nautam!_ ”

Appleby had been a master’s mate in the Triton – the same rank that Orsini held now – but he had gone his own way after the Triton sank in the hurricane in ’97. Appleby was a fine sailor, and a good navigator, but he had lacked the instinctive aggression, the creative ‘snap’ that Ramage sought in his officers. Appleby was nice; but the war did not call for niceness.

“I’m sorry to hear you’ve left the Navy,” Southwick said to Appleby.

“Ah, well, I prefer the routine, to be honest,” Appleby said, with a shrug. “And I needed the pay. Elizabeth had twins last year – Michael and Maxwell.”

“Twins!” Southwick said, impressed. “You lucky dog! How many is that, now?”

“Five!” Appleby said, proudly. “Three boys and two girls!”

Five! How could docile Appleby have five children, when Ramage had not even have one? It didn’t seem fair.

Ramage pressed the envy out of his face.  He introduced Appleby to Hill and Martin. They greeted the man who might have been their shipmate with some curiosity. Southwick began to regale Hill and Martin with some of Appleby’s history in the Triton.

Yorke met Ramage’s eye with a raised brow, and the two captains slid aside toward the ship’s taffrail. 

"I found out who is in the _Hibernia,"_ Yorke said. 

"Croucher," Ramage said.  "Captain Croucher, all over again." 

"Are you all right, Nick?"

"I'm all right, Sidney.  He hasn't tried anything, so far." 

"Don't give him the chance." 

"I'll have to talk to you, later," Ramage said.  "This whole commission has been very strange."

Yorke’s gaze slid off to something over Ramage’s shoulder, and his words tailed off. Someone was in earshot. 

"Speaking of hurricanes..." Yorke smiled brightly at someone behind Ramage. “Will will you let me introduce you to the prettiest of all my passengers? _Boa tarde, Senhora!"_

Ramage saw a woman walking toward him. She smiled when she saw the two captains turning to meet her, and dipped into a curtsey at Yorke. She wore a black dress, and a black mantilla – widow’s weeds, he wondered?

 _“Senhora,”_ Yorke said, and bowed. He gestured to Ramage. “Nick, may I introduce Senhora Isabel Cadenas? _Me-o amigo, capitano Ramage.”_

“Your servant, ma’am,” Ramage made a leg in her direction.

Yorke pointed at Ramage, and smiled at Madam Cardenas. _“Me-o amigo_ says _Boa tarde,”_ he said, clearly indicating that he was translating Ramage’s words.

Senhora smiled at Ramage. _“Boa tarde, capitão!”_ She curtseyed.

“God, Portuguese woman are beautiful!” Yorke said. He managed to retain a polite smile while speaking. 

“Sidney!” Ramage said, shocked.

“It’s all right, Nick, she doesn’t speak a word of English,” Yorke said. “Beautiful, though, isn’t she?

“Not bad,” Ramage said.

Senhora smiled sweetly at them both.  She took out a fan, and began to fan herself. The whalebone spines of the fan tick-tocked quickly with her wrist.

She was taller and leaner than Ramage liked, and not young any more.   Her cheeks were pale, with a long aquiline nose, and the huge black eyes of an El Greco Madonna.  Her black hair was coiled elaborately under her mantilla.

“Time to go down for dinner,” Yorke said. _“Senhora? Me-o arm-o?”_

Yorke extended his elbow.  Senhora closed her fan, and looped her arm through his. She allowed Yorke to lead her back toward the other Englishmen.

There was a flurry of introductions, as the Englishmen were introduced to the Portuguese. Two of the Portuguese men spoke passable English, and the other two spoke French.  Between them, dinner would be either awkward or hilarious. The party filed down to the great cabin.

The dinner table was set athwartships, stretched under the stern windows to use the most of the sunlight, and the silverware glittered in the ripples of light reflecting off the sea. Ramage took his seat at Yorke’s right hand.

It was clear that Yorke was deliberately arranging their seating so that the English speakers were clustered on one end, and the French speakers on the other. It was also obvious that Yorke had wrangled the Senhora to sit Yorke’s left hand. Ramage found himself sitting at Yorke’s right hand, facing the Pretty One across the table.

Yorke sat down at the head of the table, and winked conspiratorially at Ramage. The toasts were drunk, and the servants brought in the first dishes. The first course was a pebbly pea soup, clearly made from ships’ dried peas, augmented with raisins.  The second course was a series of baked fishes, butterflied to perfection in the Portuguese style, and surrounded by raisins.

The Portuguese gentleman sitting at Senhora's other hand was one of the two who spoke English. Senhora spoke to Dom Miguel, who spoke to Ramage. “Madam Cardenas wishes to know if your ship is the big one we went next to," Dom Miguel said.

“Tell Madam Cardenas that yes, she is. His Majesty’s Ship Dido,” Ramage said.

Madam Cardenas spoke again. Dom Miguel translated again. “She says it seems like a very fine ship. Well-built, and handsome.”

“Thank you,” Ramage said to the lady.  "Obrigada.”

She smiled, happily, and spoke more.

“Madam Cardenas’s husband was a shipbuilder,” Dom Miguel said. “Madam understands much about ships.”

“Tell Madam Cardenas my ship is  dragging a lot of weed, so she’s a bit slow right now,  but I’d take her over any other seventy-four in the fleet.  With a clean bottom she's a fine sailer.  Ask Madam, has she neen to sea before?”

Madam had been to sea just once, in the early days of her marriage. She and her husband went to Oporto, to visit his family there.

“She says she enjoyed the trip very much,” Dom Miguel said, “but then the babies came, and a respectable wife and mother cannot spend so much time at sea.”

Yorke had been almost wriggling with the urge to interrupt, and now he seized his chance. “That’s such a pity!” he burst out. “Tell Madam there’s nothing quite like a sea voyage! My sister adores the sea! She wishes she could come out more often!”

"Madam Cardenas says your sister sounds like a woman of wisdom," Dom Miguel translated. 

The second course was cleared away, and the footmen brought out the desert. There were plates of savory tarts, and little cakes. There were crackers as well, and some jars of preserves – and more raisins.

“The raisins have made their third appearance today,” Ramage said to Yorke, amused. 

“Ah, the raisins,” Yorke said, sadly. “I have five tons of raisins.  I should have tossed the raisins in the river, and stocked up on more varied victuals. Portable soups, preserves, pickles, cheeses…  .”

“Bed-linens, hammocks, clothes, livestock…” Ramage guessed. “Playing cards, sheet music, a humidore, a wine cellar…”

“I’m still making a better return than if I took the raisins straight to Halifax.  Particularly if I can sell the wretched raisins in Brazil as well.”

"You still haven't told us how you ended up in Lisbon," Ramage said. 

"There's a tale we all want to hear," Martin said.  "I'll trade you a story for a flute, Captain Yorke."

"You haven't told us what on earth you are doing with the Portuguese fleet?” Ramage said.

“You’ll never guess,” Yorke said, grinning. _“I’ve_ been under arrest.”

“Under arrest – _you?”_

“Yes, indeed! I have been languishing in captivity with all my might! We were all arrested for the beastly and loathsome sin of Not Being French.”

“You don’t say!”

“The Ambassador warned us all to leave, but I couldn’t get out sooner because the _Amethyst_ needed a new mainmast. I was arrested on the eighth. _Officially_ arrested, that is, not _really_ arrested.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Well, they confiscated my ship, but I wasn’t actually locked up, and I was assured that I’d receive full compensation from the Crown for my losses.”

“Our Crown, or theirs?” Ramage asked.

“Theirs.”

“Compensation for being _under arrest?_ ” Ramage asked, incredulous.

“I don’t mind being paid to sit and listen to _fado_ for a few weeks,” Yorke smiled. “Two days ago, they came to us and said we were all free to go, apologies for the inconvenience, and by the way, would Mr Yorke be interested in taking his nice ship to Brazil?”

“So you’ve been chartered to go to Brazil?”

“I’ve eighty-seven paying passengers at the moment.”

“Eighty-seven?” Ramage echoed, surprised.

“My sailmaker is sacrificing a spare t’gallantsail to cut up into hammocks. The passenger cabins are going to be turned into barracks.”

“Can you _feed_ eighty-seven passengers all the way to Brazil?”

“I’m provisioned for Halifax,” Yorke said. “I can do it, although we’ll all be heartily sick of raisins by the time we get there. That’s what the Amethyst was carrying to Halifax.”

“Your passengers aren’t going to like eating raisins all the way to Rio!”

“My passengers count themselves lucky to get out of Lisbon at all!"

"Such scenes of disaster!" Dom Miguel said, raising his eyes.  "Just before we left the harbour, I heard a story that fourteen carts of treasure were accidentally left behind on a wharf.  There were even stories that Portuguese ladies were being drowned in the river, trying to swim to the ships. Pulled under by their dresses. High-born ladies, of gentle birth, raised in comfort!  Drowned in the river trying to follow their prince!" 

Ramage puffed out his lips – the closest a sailor could come to a whistle.

“Stories,” Yorke cautioned. “But it _was_ havoc. _That_ I saw with my own eyes.”

“Where are the French?”

“On the outskirts of the city as we weighed anchor,” Yorke said. “ _Literally_ on the outskirts. The story is that Junot has come on with just fifteen-hundred men. He’s left his guns and his commissary behind, and now his men are walking like the half-dead, and all his horses have all died.”

“Forced marching,” Ramage agreed. “Horses can’t stand it.”

“It doesn’t do soldiers much good, either,” Yorke said, drily. “But if the French had just a bit more stamina, or if Lisbon had a bit less rain, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Ramage said. He raised his lemonade as if it was a wine glass. “To General Junot. Long may he get lost in the rain.”

"To General Junot," Yorke raised his glass.

To Ramage’s right, Appleby and Southwick were explaining to the Portuguese about the differences between a master’s warrant like Southwick’s, and a lieutenant’s commission like Hill’s. Appleby had been a master’s mate in the Triton: the same rank as Orsini held now. For Orsini, the rank was only a temporary rating until he could pass his lieutenant’s examination and become a commissioned officer. Appleby, however, had passed a different examination, and gained a sailing-master’s warrant. Sailing-masters weren't gentlemen, and could never go on to command – but they were the consummate professional seamen.

“But there are always more applicants than berths, and I couldn’t find a ship. Then I met Mr Yorke after Trafalgar, and here we are,” Appleby finished. He smiled around the table.

Ramage helped himself to some crackers, and then found that the preserves had all bypassed him somehow. “Are there any jams standing by you, Mr Southwick?” he asked.

“They’ve all washed up on Senhor Ferreira’s shore,” Southwick said.

“How do you say ‘jam’ in Portuguese?” Yorke asked Ramage. 

“He speaks French, just ask him.”

“Ah, no, this is my chance to show off in front of Madam,” Yorke said, his eyes twinkling. “What’s the Portuguese word for jam? _Preservar_ is preserve, I think. _Preservatif? Preservativo?”_ He opened his mouth.  _"Senhor Ferr.."_

_“No!”_

_“No!”_ Senhora Cardenas grabbed Yorke’s wrist!

“I beg your pardon?” Yorke said, startled to find his hand grabbed.

“Please don’t shout over the table that you need a condom!” Ramage hissed.

"Not _preservativo!"_    Madam turned her head, and spoke down the table to Ferreira. She gestured to Yorke as she spoke. Ferreira looked down at the jars  with a startled expression. A moment later the preserves began to circulate around the table again.

"This is called _Geléia de frutas,"_ Madam said. “A _preservativo_ is a thing that a man wear on his ... you know... Down there...”

Yorke stared at Madam Cardenas with his eyes wide.   “You speak English!” he croaked. He was beginning to blush.

Madam's eyes twinkled.  “Yes. Little bit.”

“God bless my soul,” Yorke said. He put his free hand over his mouth.  “All the things I’ve said…”

Madam began to giggle. She raised her napkin from her lap and wrapped it in front of her mouth to stifle her laughter.

“I had no idea, I didn’t know…! Oh, God, what have I said?”

Madam took a deep breath, coming to grips with her giggles. “Is all right, I am not insult!” she said, over the napkin. Her black eyes were sparkling at Yorke with wicked delight.  "Better than shout for _preservativo_ down the table!" 

“Why didn’t you say something?” Yorke demanded.

“After the first time?” she asked, and her eyes crinkled up in laughter again.

“If you had said, I would have apologised.”

“No, no. _Capitão,”_ she opened her fist, and pressed the napkin to her breast. “You are charming! And handsome.  And I am the widow.  I think that I never again hear a handsome man call me beautiful …”

“What?” Dom Miguel’s head suddenly whipped around. He demanded something in Portuguese.

She patted him reassuringly on his arm and grinned at Yorke. “I play the joke on Capitão Yorke, and it is good.”

“Madam Cardenas speaks English,” Ramage said.

“But not very good English,” Dom Miguel said, in surprise.

“Yes, but Captain Yorke didn't know,” Ramage said.

Yorke and Senhora Cardenas were still staring at each other.

She had not, Ramage noted, let go of Yorke’s hand. Not had Yorke pulled his hand out from under hers. He was still staring at Madam as if she was the most fascinating creature he’d ever laid eyes on in his life.  Oh, for pity’s sake, Ramage thought. He knew that look. He’d _felt_ that look. The idiot had fallen in love.

“Where did you learn English?” Yorke was asking Madam.

“My house-band is ship builder. Englishmen were visiting my house. Ship captains, merchants, factors, traders… I learn English, a little, from my house-band...”

Poor old Sidney, he thought. Yorke had eyes and ears only for Madam, as if the rest of the dinner party had disappeared.  Ramage quietly decided not to interrupt Yorke for the next few weeks.  A sea-voyage romance would do Yorke good. Besides, if Yorke was anything like Ramage himself, there would be no room in his head for anything but Madam anyway.

He turned to Dom Miguel. “Dom Miguel – I understand from your comments you hail from Almeida?”

The rest of the dinner passed amiably enough. After the dishes were cleared away, ‘Blower’ Martin took out his flute, and played a selection of music on his flute, a mixture of English and Italian music.

And then of course there was the Torre di Buranaccio. Of course there would be. Of course.  Ramage endured, trying to keep his face in a smooth bland expression and not a scowl of rage.

“That song he just played,” Yorke explained to Madame Cardenas as the last refrain ended. “Nicholas is in that song.”

“Oh, no, Sidney,” Ramage groaned. "Not you, too!" 

“It’s the story of how the brave Lord Nicholas  rescued the beautiful Marchesa di Volterra.”

“It’s nonsense, really,” Ramage said, shrugging. “It didn’t happen that way.”

“She didn’t point a pistol at you in the Tower?” Yorke asked.

“Oh, she did," Ramage admitted. "And Jackson did hold a cutlass against her back. And Jackson did chase off a group of French cavalry by frightening their horses – but it didn’t happen that way.”

It was hard to remember how it had happened, after so many years – but it certainly hadn’t felt romantic at the time. His head had hurt from his wound, and he had been shaken by the loss of the _Sibella._ And Gianna had been shot in the shoulder and there had been the terrible cold fear that she would die in his arms in the open boat… He had felt very young, and very lost, and very alone. 

“Nothing is really feeling like a song,” Madame said, wisely. “Not even saddest sad fado sounds like being a widow.  My house-band died, and it is nothing like a song.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Yorke said. “He must have been a good man.”

“He was,” she said. "But that is why I am here.  He would say, _go._   So I sell my jewels, and I go with my daughters to Brazil to make the new life.  If the Marchesa di Volterra can make her own song, then so can I.”

“Wait until you reach the tropics,” Yorke told her, enthusiastically. “The world is _far_ more beautiful than you have ever imagined … ”

Martin played a little more, and then the Portuguese sang some fado, accompanying themselves with a guitar. After the music finished, the party broke up. The Portuguese retreated to their cabins. The Englishmen went up to the deck, while Stafford, hiccuping visibly, brought the Dido’s boat back to the Amethyst’s side.

Ramage allowed his officers to precede him to the boat, and waited for a moment until he could talk to Yorke alone. He saw that not all of the Portuguese passengers had gone below to their cabins. Madam Cardenas was standing on the quarterdeck, one gloved hand resting on the rail, watching Yorke.

"Will you take my advice?"  He pitched his voice for Yorke’s ears alone. “Carpe diem, Sidney.”

“How do you mean?”

“Madame Cardenas. _Carpe puellam,_ my friend! Grab her, quick, before someone else does!”

Yorke pulled away, with a shocked look on his face. “I can’t do that!”

"Why not?” Ramage said.

“It’s not my nature to pursue a female passenger!”

Ramage laughed at him. “You don’t know much about women, Sidney! They’re perfectly capable of pursuing us right back!”

“She’s a widow!” Yorke said. “And a mother!”

“Exactly! She’s a mature woman of the world, who knows what she wants. And she wants _you.”_

“I couldn’t possibly even think along those lines.”

“Sidney, I’m not telling you what to do – except that I’m absolutely telling you what to do,” Ramage said. “This world is not so full of happiness that we can ignore a little more.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Don’t think about it too long, or someone else will come along and _Carpe puellam_ away from you.” Ramage advised. He patted Yorke’s shoulder affectionately. “Seize your moment, Sidney! It might not come again, so don’t let it slip away…”


	10. Pax

 

 The great lanthorne in the _Dido’_ s taffrail glowed over the poop deck. Ramage walked to the weather rail, and stood looking out at the night.

The sea always seemed more powerful at night. In the darkness, the more primal senses took over. The ears, hearing the pounding of the sea, churning along the waterline. The balance, feeling the _Dido_ rolling deeply. And the imagination, , sensing the immense depth falling away under the keel into the eternal dark. What monsters slid by down there in the black, no man knew.

Tonight, however, the _Dido_ did not sail alone upon the face of the waters. They were surrounded by a swath of lanterns.  Every ship was burning its lights so that they should not run aboard each other in the darkness. The galaxy of lights proclaimed, _we are here,_ against the eternal darkness.

“This is new,” Ramage said aloud, looking at the lights.

“Yes, sir,” a deep voice declared.

Ramage turned. Loach came up next to Ramage, and stood alongside his captain, looking at the fleet around the Dido. It wasn't done to address the Captain first on the quarterdeck, but Loach had thought that Ramage was speaking to him. “Peace would be like this, I reckon, sir,” Loach said. “Ships sailing with all their lights burning.”

“In peace-time, they wouldn’t be sailing in convoy at all,” Ramage said. “And you and I would not be here at all."

“I’ll second that, sir. I’ve a wife and a home to go back to.”

“You’re married?” Ramage asked, surprised.

“Sir,” Loach nodded; almost invisibly in the pale light. “And four little ones. My eldest is old enough to look after the forge now.”

Ramage swallowed his feelings, grateful that his face was hidden by the dim light. How the hell had Loach fathered four children, when Loach only had half a face? He turned to look out at the fleet.  The ship’s rail was warm under his palm, and he ran his hand along it, feeling the smooth polished wood. “We’ll be parting company in a day or so.”

“I know, sir.”

Ramage could see Loach’s silhouette, swaying against the fleet’s lights with the _Dido’_ s movement.  He'd thought about this idea all day, and he still didn't know if he was doing the right thing. 

“I have a task for you,” Ramage said. 

“Yes, sir?”

“I want you to go across to the _Hibernia_ with a letter for me.”

 “Yes, sir?” Loach said. Ramage could hear the surprise in Loach's voice.  “And shift my berth there, sir?”

“No,” Ramage said.  “Why would you?” 

"Well, sir... I thought you'd be putting me out of the ship?”

“No,” Ramage said. “I told you, that’s not my way!  You’re a good officer. If I turned you out of the _Dido_ , you'd probably never get another berth.   I'm not scuppering your career because I don't like Croucher!"

“Yes, sir."  

"All I want you to do is carry a letter.  Just a letter.  You’ve not seen Captain Croucher this whole commission – and if you don’t see him now, you probably won’t see him again any time soon at all.  So you can go to the _Hibernia_.  Deliver my letter.” 

“Thank you, sir.”

“But on one condition.”

“Sir?”

“Deliver the letter.  Take your time.  You can even stay for dinner if you want to.  But not a word to Croucher about this ship!   Is that clear?  If Croucher asks you about me, tell him you’re under explicit orders not to get involved.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Tell him it falls under the terms of our truce. He’ll know what that means.  And if Croucher has any affection for you, he’ll respect that.”  
  
"He _does,_ sir," Loach said.   "He's a good bloke, sir.  Not exactly warm and cuddly, but he's a damn good egg."  
  
He couldn't imagine Croucher as a good _anything._

"I don't care if he is," Ramage said.  "But the feud between Croucher and me is exactly that – between Croucher and me. This feud has hung around my neck my whole career, and I'll be damned if I'll pass it onto you.  This damned feud didn’t _start_ with me, but it _will_ end with me.”

“You won’t regret it, captain.”

 

* * *

 

_Dear Captain Croucher_

_I trust this letter finds you in good health.  I  send it to you in the hands of Mr Loach, with my assurances to you that no harm or will come to him as a result of our discord._

_He is an excellent seaman, and a zealous officer, and I am not the man who would blight an innocent officer's promising career over my own prejudices. As far as I am concerned, our truce applies also to him.  His berth in the Dido is secure for as long as he wishes it.  
_

_Yours, etc,_

_Nicholas Ramage._

 

 

* * *

 

 The next morning, Loach went across to the Hibernia. A few hours later, he was back. The Marine sentry announced Loach’s arrival at the great cabin. Loach came in, and touched his hat. 

"Sir," Loach said.  "May I speak with you on a private matter?"

"Is something wrong?"

"No, sir, all's well,"  Loach said. “I thought I’d report back to you immediately sir.”

“You don’t have to report back to me at all, Mr Loach,” Ramage said.  

“I believe I should, sir," Loach said, adamantly.  Ramage noticed that his coat was still wet.  He had not taken the time to change, but come straight from his boat.

“Please sit, Mr Loach?” He gestured to the armchair opposite him.

Loach took the armchair, sitting upright with his hat on his knee.  "Well, sir, I think I made some headway to end the feud!"

_"End the feud?"_ Ramage asked, incredulous. "I sent you to deliver a letter."

"I did," Loach said.  "And I dined with the Captain.  We had a very nice curry.  Talked about the racing.  And India.  He wanted to know how my face was healing, which is...” Loach’s fingers hovered briefly over his scars, "...well enough, I suppose."

"Yes?" Ramage asked.  Why did some men insist on giving reports chronologically, instead of hitting on the most important point first? 

"And then we got around to talking about _you,_ sir."   

“The one thing I told you not to do!” Ramage said, taken aback.

“Sorry, sir.”

“I gave you an order, and you ignored it!”

“Yes, sir,” Loach said, stolidly.  “But the farrier’s duty is to the horse, sir, not the carter.”

Ramage threw up both hands.  “I’m not a horse!”

“Sorry, sir,” Loach said. He didn’t look sorry in the least. 

Good God.  Ramage sat back in his chair.  So _this_ was what it felt to deal with _himself._ Loach had done to Ramage _precisely_ what Ramage had done to _his_ senior officers.  Loach had ignored the letter of his orders in favour of doing what _he_ thought best.   He wondered if any of _his_ superiors had ever wanted to grab him by the throat and _shake_ him. 

Loach seemed to take his captain’s silence as an invitation to keep talking. "You told me not to get involved in the feud, but you didn't tell me not to _end_ it.  In fact you said you _wanted_ to end it.”

“And to hell with my orders?”

“Yes, sir,” Loach said, stolidly.  “I couldn’t think myself a friend to you, to both of you, if I didn’t do everything I could to help.  Sorry about that, sir.”

"God!"

“You see, sir, I don’t think he really _knows_ you.  He’s been your enemy, but it’s not the same, is it?  So I figured I'd caulk a few seams.  I said I don't think you hate him but you don't trust him an inch."

"I don't," Ramage said. 

"And he said, that was understandable, because he wouldn't trust himself either if he was in your shoes, and he said he wouldn't trust _you_ if you thought what _he_ thought when you met him.  I said that didn't make any sense, but he told me not to be impertinent." 

"Quite," Ramage said. 

"And that was when he gave me a letter.”  Loach reached into his coat pocket, and drew out a folded square of paper.  He held it out.  “He asked me to put it directly into your hand.  He asked me to tell you that if you do not choose to reply, he will accept it, and say no more about it.”

Ramage took the paper, and turned it over in his hand.  It had been sealed with a little horse’s head instead of a signet – a chesspiece?  

“Do you know what it says?”

“No, sir.   I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say.”

“All right,” Ramage said.  He turned the letter over in his hands.  He did not break the seal.

“He is a good bloke,” Loach said.  “I know you’ve no reason to see it, but he _is_.  He’s a bit odd, but he’s a good bloke.”

“Odd?”  Ramage asked.  “In what way?”

“Different.  If you can imagine sailing under a mathematics professor – that’s what he’s like.”

“I’ve never met a mathematics professor,” Ramage said.

“Well, you’ve met _him_.”  Loach grinned. "When he gets angry, he doesn't scream and shout - he lectures.  The men would rather tie themselves in knots than listen to him lecture. " 

"I’ve heard him,” Ramage said.  “He sounds like a lawyer getting paid by the word.” 

"He's just... _very odd._   His men are _very_ fond of him. Protective, like. They'll follow him anywhere. They're quite proud to have the only captain in the Navy _no-one_ understands. His father was an Oxford mathematics professor, and people say that’s why he’s a little bit funny. He’s _very_ different to you, sir.  You’re a gentleman, and he’s awkward.  You're a lord, and he's a natural philosopher.  If you’re like another Nelson, I suppose he’s more like … like... well, like sailing with Henry Cavendish.”

“I'm not sure if that's a good thing, Mr Loach." 

Loach shook his head.  “It's a good thing, sir. I'd buy a horse from him _without_ checking its feet, sir, and there's not many fellows I'd say that about."

Ramage bit back a smile at the inevitable mention of horses.  “You’ve said enough,” Ramage said.

“I hope it _is_ enough, sir,” Loach said. 

Ramage sat alone for a long time, and looked at the letter in his hand.

He should not give Croucher the chance to plant seeds in his mind. He should not let Croucher lay hooks to ensnare Ramage in a new trap. He should throw this letter over the side.  He should not play into Croucher's hands.  He should not break the seal.  He should not unfold the paper, and read it.

He broke the seal, and read it anyway.

 

* * *

 

_Dear Captain Ramage_

_Events have transpired in recent weeks which have cast a different light on certain events in our mutual histories.  If you would condescend to call on me before we part company, I hope that I may go some way to substantiating our truce, and thereby  provide you with a satisfaction that may fulfill us both._

_If my proposal does not please you, do know that I regret both my conduct, and my stupidity._

_I am, &c,_

_Capt. A. Croucher_

 

* * *

 


	11. Au revoir

A week later, Ramage was walking the poop deck in the early afternoon, cloaked in the traditional solitude of the captain.  The Portuguese had learned the strange British custom.  Nobody spoke to the captain, unless he spoke to them first.  Nobody interrupted his thoughts, and he stalked back and forth, pausing only to stare at the _Hibernia._  

The fleet had sailed in a great arc across the sea – north-west at first to put Portugal behind them, before turning in the wind’s eye and reaching down deep into the Atlantic.  The wind had blown strongly for days, giving the civilians a nasty introduction to the sea, but most of them were recovered by now.  The little pencil markings on the chart that noted the Dido’s progress moved slowly and steadily across the Atlantic.  They were approaching the Azores.   

Now, time had run out.  37° north, 14° west was upon them.  Tomorrow, they would reach the designated latitude.  The fleet would be safely away from French privateers putting out of the Channel, and the Royal Navy escort could turn back to their blockade of Lisbon. Tomorrow they would part company. 

Noon came and went, as Ramage walked back and forth across the quarterdeck.  The bell rang out eight times, the watch changed.  The Dido turned over a new day in her shipboard calendar.  The officers on the quarterdeck took the noon sight, watched by curious Portuguese observers.  Ramage took his noon sight along with Southwick and the midshipmen, and quietly erased his slate when his own calculations put the Dido somewhere in the middle of the Louisiana Purchase. 

Southwick climbed stiffly up the ladder, and walked over to Ramage.  The master touched his hat, and waited for his captain to acknowledge his presence. 

“Mr Southwick.” 

“Sir, it is noon, and I have worked out our position,” Southwick said, formally.

“Very good, Mr Southwick.  Make it so,” Ramage said. 

The ship’s clock – _not_ the ship’s chronometer – had to be adjusted each day to their local noon, so that the difference between the _Dido’_ s longitude and the longitude of Greenwich could be calculated between the chronometer and the clock. 

“And we will reach 37° north, 14° west by tomorrow morning.”

“So tomorrow morning we’ll part company,” Ramage said. 

“Unless something happens overnight, sir,” Southwick said, darkly. 

“Nothing has happened so far,” Ramage said. 

“I’ll touch wood,” Southwick said.  He reached out a hand, and rapped his knuckles on the arched rail of the taffrail. 

Tomorrow, they would part company, and the _Hibernia_ would turn back for Portugal.  Tomorrow they would begin their long, long run down the Atlantic to Brazil.  Time had run out.  And Ramage had to make a decision before tomorrow. 

He put his hand into his pocket, and felt the paper of Croucher's letter crinkling in his pocket.  Croucher’s letter had been revolving around and around in his mind for a week.  

Croucher had done nothing since the letter to engage with Ramage in any way.  Since the letter, the _Hibernia_ and the _Dido_ sailed in the same silence as their voyage to Lisbon had been.  It was as if a curtain had fallen between the two warships; as if Croucher was a chess player, waiting for Ramage’s next move. Croucher made no more overtures to Ramage, or to the _Dido,_ leaving Ramage with nothing but the same questions.  Go to see Croucher?  Ignore the letter?  Did he trust Loach?  Did he trust Croucher?  

Bastia … the mysterious Vickery.  The _Lion_ and the _Triton_ …

Dread – and fascination.  Curiosity and calamity.  If Croucher meant harm … if Loach’s opinion of him was true… if Croucher meant harm … If… If…

Yorke was sure that the letter was a trap.  Yorke had made Ramage promise not to go near Croucher, letter or no letter. 

Then again, _if_ he ignored the letter, it would not come again.  No man would make a friendly overture twice, if the first was snubbed.  There would be only this one chance.  He had one opportunity to solve the mystery of Croucher’s behaviour…

 _…if the_ letter really was a friendly overture, and not a trap.  

He had lain in his cot last night, feeling the rolling of the ship, staring up at the tell-tale compass that hung over him.  He had been unable to sleep, with his decision turning over and over in his mind. Every time he thought he had made a decision, his mind would leap onto a new tangent, and would not halt until he had run all the way down to the exact opposite decision.  No sooner had he resolved to _that_ decision, than his mind leapt back to the opposite tangent, and the whole process began all over again. He had slept finally, waking exhausted with his jaw and neck aching from clenching his teeth in his sleep, and the question was still turning in his brain as if he had not slept at all.

He turned and stared at the _Hibernia_ again. 

She was almost a mile away on the starboard bow, ploughing along under the noon sun.  Her sails were set, and drawing well.  Flaxen sails against the blue sky; black-and-white checkered hull rolling on the rich deep black-and-green of the sea – she was spread out in the sunshine like a maritime painting.

She was a fine sight, but she gave him no answers.  He shook his head silently and turned away. 

Jackson thought Croucher was in the grip of his conscience.  Yorke too thought he was in the grip of his conscience – but conversely that he would try to destroy Ramage.  Bowen thought that Croucher was mad.  Southwick thought he was evil.  Everyone was trying to warn him away from Croucher.  

And he himself did not want to go anywhere near Croucher.  He could remember all too well Croucher’s cold gaze; could still feel the fear as Croucher’s noose had closed around his throat in Bastia. 

And yet, he could still feel that _frisson_ when he had seen Croucher balancing on the bowsprit of the _Hibernia_ , riding his ship into battle like a knight of old.  He could still feel the shock of looking directly into Croucher’s gaze in the _Hibernia_ _’_ s great cabin.  He could still feel that strange allure; that bizarre sympathy, tugging him toward Croucher even as his dread was pushing him away.   He understood, for the first time, the dreadful fascination of the mouse for the snake.  

His friends were trying to help him, but trying to consider all their advice at once was wearing him down.  He did not have a brain for such subtlety.  Too many opinions were walling him tighter and tighter into a man he knew that he was not.  Ramage had too many opinions; too many options.  He was beset by opinions; clotted with too much thought, surrounded with swarm of possibilities, pressing down on his brain.  

There were only two choices.  He must choose one. 

Ramage squeezed his fists tight.  He must ignore everything his friends had said.  He must ignore everything he _knew._   Information was not helping him; he felt as if he was drowning in information.  He must ignore all the dazzling information at hand.  What did he _feel?_  

He felt _tired,_ he realized.   

The feud was his burden, and he was _tired_ of bearing it.  He was tired of the fear, of the suspicion, of the paranoia.  He was turning into a man he did not like, playing a game of mistrust and manipulation that he did not want to play.  He wanted an end to it.  Even if he blundered to his own destruction, he would deny his own nature no longer.  This game of paranoia was tearing him to pieces.  

The decision, once made, was resolved instantly.

“Mr Hill!” 

“Sir?” 

“A signal to the _Hibernia_ _,_ if you please – I desire to go aboard and speak to her captain.  Have my boat hoisted out.” 

* * *

 

Ramage climbed up the _Hibernia_ ’s towering side, and found himself facing the bright blast of a formal welcome.  Sideboys, and boatswain’s pipes wailed miserably, and the drum rattled, and here was the _Hibernia_ ’s first lieutenant welcoming him as he stepped onto the deck.  He followed the officer up to the quarterdeck. 

Croucher was waiting for him, surrounded by his officers.  He turned to face Ramage as he approached.  Ramage was reminded suddenly of two duellists meeting on the field at daybreak.  Ramage focused his eyes on Croucher’s face, on the deep-slung grey eyes that watched Ramage approach without expression.  He could feel the letter still in his pocket. 

A duel, Ramage thought.  Any two other officers would meet each other for a duel.  This is _my_ duel…

“I’ve come to talk to you,” Ramage said to Croucher, choosing his words, very aware that the officers on the Hibernia’s quarterdeck were watching.  “Since tomorrow we will be at 37° north, 14° west.”

Croucher nodded.  “I’m glad you decided to come,” Croucher said, matching Ramage’s neutral tone. 

“Have you somewhere we can talk in private?” 

“In the wardroom,” Croucher said.  “If you’d care to follow me?”

Ramage followed him down the ladder.  Croucher spoke over his shoulder as he descended to the upper gun deck.  “The Ambassador has the Admiral’s quarters, the Admiral has my quarters, I’ve taken my first lieutenant’s quarters.  Space is a little _tight._ ” 

“I understand, sir,” Ramage said, neither ignoring Croucher not encouraging him.  Croucher did not speak again until they reached the door to the wardroom.  There were a couple of officers there, sitting around the wardroom table. 

“Mr Cullen, Mr Jessop,” Croucher rasped.  “May I impose on you for a minute?  I need to have a confidential conversation with Captain Ramage.” 

The two lieutenants looked at each other, and got up, closing their books.  They cleared the wardroom with haste, and with meaningful glances at each other.  They knew all about the bad blood between their captain and his guest. 

The moment they were alone, Croucher turned to Ramage, facing him squarely. 

“Captain,” he said, and left the word in the air. 

Ramage drew out a chair at the wardroom table, and sat down.  Croucher sat opposite him, rested his wrists on the tabletop, and interlaced his fingers.  His grey eyes were sunk deep in their dark sockets under the jutting shelf of his brow, but his gaze met Ramage’s gaze. 

“I’ve come for what you offered in your letter,” Ramage said.  “Satisfaction.”

“It will be yours.” 

“It is one thing to have a cessation of hostilities, but it’s another thing to have peace.”

“I know,” Croucher said.  “So speak.  Demand.  I’ll answer.” 

“What happened in the _Lion?”_ Ramage said. 

“The _Lion?”_ Croucher frowned, as if that was the last name he had expected. 

“In ’97.  The time of the hurricane.” 

“Why the _Lion?”_

“You were my enemy.  And now … you are not.  Something changed in the _Lion_.  I want to know what.”

“The question you _should_ be asking concerns Bastia, not the _Lion,”_ Croucher said. 

“The _Lion_ has nothing to do with you.”

“Speak, demand, you’ll answer,” he reminded Croucher.

“I _will_ tell you everything.  But I have to begin at the beginning,” Croucher insisted.  “And it began in Bastia.”

He was not giving Ramage an inch.  Macbeth, yes; concessions no.  Ramage sighed.  “Very well.  What happened in Bastia?” 

“You were accused of something you did not do,” Croucher said. 

“By this Lieutenant Vickery?” 

“Yes,” Croucher said.  He had still not moved a muscle, and his hands were still clasped on the tabletop.  His voice was still scratchy and precise, still the humourless preacher, but now the preacher sounded as if he was making confession to a bishop.  Ramage had seen him give evidence at a court martial once – his own – and Croucher was answering him as if he was under an oath now too. 

“I don’t know a Lieutenant Vickery,” Ramage said.  “I looked in the Navy List, but I couldn’t find him.” 

“He died at the Siege of Acre.  But you did meet him, once.  Or rather, he said he met you,” Croucher said.  “He came to see me before you reached Bastia.” 

“With a challenge from me?” Ramage said. 

“Not as such.  He said he overheard you and another officer speaking.  And you said…” Croucher swallowed, heavily, his adam’s apple rising and falling.  “Certain words.” 

“What did I say?”

Croucher narrowed his eyes.  “You said that if I pursued you, you would challenge me to a duel.  Pistols or swords, you’d see me on my knees.  And _then_ you would fuck me the way you fucked my daughter, and see if I squeaked like she did.” 

Ramage’s mouth dropped open with shock.  The crude words, delivered in Croucher’s monotone, struck him hard in the centre of his chest. 

“I never said that!” 

“Lieutenant Vickery swore you did,” Croucher said, implacably.

“I _never_ said that!”

“I _believed_ that you did.  Because of my daughter.  My daughter…” Croucher swallowed heavily again.  His gaze dropped to the table, and then came up again.  He knotted his hands into fists, and then spread them flat on the table top.  “My daughter Euphemie was offered gross insults by a man she refused to name.  I never found out who it was – I think she knew I’d have killed the man who did it with my bare hands.  And _then_ came Vickery, with his tale.”

“I’ve never met your daughter,” Ramage said, appalled.  “I’ve _never_ …!”  He could not even express words, just opened and closed his mouth. 

“How would you even have _known_ about it,” Croucher asked, his voice remorselessly logical,  “unless it was _you_ who did it?  Nobody outside my family even knows that it happened.”   

“Vickery was lying!” Ramage said.  “Good God!  Why would someone _lie_ about a thing like that?  And about someone he doesn’t even know!”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Croucher asked.  “Jedediah Goddard put him up to it.”

Ramage sucked in his breath.  He said nothing.  There was nothing to say to that.

“I believed it,” Croucher said.  “And then you yourself walked into the great cabin of the Trumpeter, and I was so sure, so certain, that you were laughing at me, that you were gloating over what you did.  I wanted to kill you there and then – but Jed said there was an easier way.  Take over the court martial, he said.  Finish him.  String him up.  I give him to you.  He’s all yours.” 

“For something I didn’t do,” Ramage said, staring at Croucher.  His mouth had gone dry. 

Croucher met his gaze.  “I thought you harmed my daughter. I wanted you dead.” 

“I know,” Ramage said, sourly.  “The minute I walked into your cabin in the _Trumpeter_ , I felt it.” 

“I wanted you dead, Ramage.  If you knew how badly I wanted you dead, you would not sit there and speak to me, one officer to another.  I tried to _hang_ you.  I wanted to _hear_ your neck break.”  Croucher’s grey eyes were burning, unblinking, as if the man was suffering in a high fever.  

“Lovely,” Ramage said, staring at Croucher. 

“But I have recently realized that you did not commit the crime you were accused of.  It has taken me ten years to finally realize … you didn’t do it.  _You_ didn’t do it.” 

Ramage realized that his stomach was clenched so tightly that his muscles were jumping.  He set his hands on the table to prevent himself touching his neck where the noose had almost gone.  He clenched his fists. 

 

“What changed your mind?”  he asked, keeping tight control on the volume of his voice. 

“ _You_ did,” Croucher said.  “You, in Cawsand Bay.  _What challenge,_ you said.  _Who is Vickery?_   And just like that, the light came on in my stupid head.  There are some things that make so much _sense_ when you shine a different light on them.  Everything that _was_ murky is now clear.” 

“I see,” Ramage said, quietly.  

“ _Do_ you see it, Ramage?  Do you?   _You_ remember the Duke of Brittany’s daughter?  I didn’t _see_ it in the _Lion,_ but I do _now._ ”  

Croucher’s voice had dropped to a whisper.  He dropped his chin into his neck, and stared down at the table.  His eyes burned under his brow as if he could scorch a hole into the table with his gaze.  “Stupid, stupid, stupid…”

Ramage waited for him to say something else, but there was nothing.  Croucher stared down at the table in a shaking fury, but he did not speak. 

“What happened in the _Lion?”_ Ramage asked, eventually. 

“Does it still matter, after all these years?” Croucher picked up his head. 

“You said you would tell me everything,” Ramage said.  “Finish it.  I have a _right_ to know.”

Croucher looked at him for a long time. 

“Yes. I suppose you do. The strangest thing, the ultimate irony is that of all of us who were there, _you’re_ the only one who was completely innocent.” 

“Innocent?” 

“Of mutiny,” Croucher said. 

It was the last word Ramage had expected.  “The _Lion_ mutinied?” 

“No,” Croucher said.  “I did.”

“ _What?”_  

“I had had enough.  I told Jed Goddard that I would no longer follow his orders.  And then I hit him.  He hit me first, but I hit harder.  Three times.  In the face.  In front of his own flag lieutenant.”

Ramage looked at him with his mouth open.  “You struck a superior officer?”

“And then I had my Marines lock him up in the _Lion_ ’s brig.” 

“But …” 

“All those men,” Croucher said, his eyes going a little distant.  “All those ships, obediently sailing into disaster – I could not stand to look at it.  The _Greyhound_ , the _Lark_ … all those merchantmen…”

“The hurricane sank them.” 

“No!  Jed sank them!”  His eyes snapped back to Ramage.   “Jed killed those men, as surely as if he’d blown them apart with a broadside.  I’d already _seen_ a hurricane before.  I knew what it could do, and I _begged_ him to let the convoy disperse, begged him to change course to run with the hurricane, but he refused.  Eventually, I just went up to the quarterdeck and sent the signals myself, and to hell with Jed.”

Ramage remembered the sudden flurry of signals from the _Lion,_ hoisted in the fading light on the last day before the hurricane struck with full force.  He had thought it was Goddard suddenly seeing sense, but that had been Croucher.  But even that had been too late to save the convoy.  Croucher had found the will to defy his Admiral, but it had come too late. 

Croucher went on talking, and Ramage realized that he probably not able to stop himself.  His confession was going to come out, whether Ramage wanted to hear it or not.  It had been ten years coming. 

“That was only the beginning,” Croucher said. “That night, the mizzen mast went by the board.  Killed the master, and ten men.  Jed panicked when he saw it.  He was bleating that we were all going to die, and he was making the men at the wheel panic too.  I had to do something, or see the ship founder.  I had a couple of Marines take Jed off the quarterdeck by force.  In the cabin later, he screamed at me, and hit me, so I hit him back.  He told the Marine to arrest me, I told the Marine to arrest _him,_ and my Marine listened to _me._   Jed spent the rest of the hurricane locked up below with the livestock.”

So that was where the mocking bleating at Goddard had come from, Ramage thought. 

 “Half of the officers sided with me, half with him, but the ship was sinking under us.  We were too busy to quarrel.  We survived, until we met a frigate to tow us to Jamaica.  And _then_ Jed came out of his hiding place, and told me he was going to try me for mutiny.  Articles 11, 18, and 21.” 

Ramage could quote the same Article.  They had both recited the Articles of War to their ship’s companies, many dozens of times.  Article 21 referred to any person in the fleet who struck any of his superior officers…

Croucher spoke with the intonation of a lawyer.  “Every such person being convicted of any such offense, by the sentence of a court martial, shall suffer death.”

“You could have been hanged,” Ramage said.  “You _should_ have been hanged.” 

“Would have been, but then you showed up.  Jed would much rather hang you than me,” Croucher said.  “ _Lie,_ he said.  _Lie,_ and my report will never reach London.  So… I lied.”

“To string me up in your place,” Ramage said, sourly. 

“I can’t say that I _minded_ the prospect of stringing you up,” Croucher said.  “But it wasn’t about you any more.  I just didn’t care any more.  I was sick and tired of Jed, and the Navy, and everything else by that point.  I was going to resign my command, and go home.”

“I _wondered_ about your weird testimony in my court martial.” 

“Lies, and lies, and lies.  Captain Napier guessed the truth – he’s nobody’s fool.  I didn’t care.  I thought my career was over.  But the _Lion_ was so badly damaged she needed six months’ repairs before she could sail again, and I was recalled to London.  And somehow, my career survived.  I was never court-martialled for hitting Jed.  Although I’m damned if I know how.”

“I think I have the missing piece of _that_ puzzle,” Ramage said, slowly. 

“You?  How?” 

“After the trial, I spoke with Sir Pilcher Skinner.”

“The Commander in Chief at Jamaica at the time,” Croucher said, nodding. 

“He started making noises about declaring my trial null and void, and ordering a new one.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“He didn’t get very far,” Ramage said, remembering back to that long-ago interview in Skinner’s office – threat, and counter-threat.  “I threatened him back.  I asked him for the minutes of my  trial.  I said I wanted to use them for my own trial when I laid charges of my own in the King’s Bench against Goddard.  For perjury.” 

“That would have been ugly.”

“Skinner knew if it came to that, he’d be dragged through the mud, as well.  He had to look to his own protection – so he let Goddard go.  He let _everything_ go.  He buried everything to do with the hurricane, and the _Lion_ , and Goddard.”

“Including Jed’s accusations against _me,_ ” Croucher said, new understanding lighting up his bony face like a prophet seeing a vision of heaven.  “Do you realize, Ramage, _you_ ended up saving my career!”

“Not me,” Ramage said.  “Goddard has enemies of his own.  Someone in Whitehall must have learned the truth.”  

“It took _me_ long enough,” Croucher sighed.  “I probably should have seen him for what he was sooner.  But a friendship of nearly thirty years is not easily broken.  I wept, after the _Lion,_ and I do not weep easily.” 

“Jed Goddard does not deserve your tears!”

“I wasn’t weeping for _him._   I was weeping for _us.”_   Croucher shook his head, and massaged his brow with two fingers.  “He was my friend, in a time when I had no friends – a time when I thought I didn’t deserve friends.  He was literally the only person who would speak to me, at one point.” 

“And so you owe him,” Ramage guessed.

“Not even so simple as that.  Have you any friends from your childhood?

 _Gianna_ , Ramage’s mind whispered, but he shook his head. 

“I was friends with Jed for more than thirty years, boy and man.”  Croucher paused, his fingers still pressed to his chin.  He stared at Ramage, as if wondering how much he would understand.  “When you are friends with someone that long, you stop really seeing them.  He grows in ways that you don’t like, but you become very good at explaining them away.  You tell yourself, no, actually he has a good heart.  He’s not as bad as people think.  He’s been led astray.  He’s just parroting what he’s heard.  He doesn’t really think that.  You learn to keep your other friends in separate circles from him.  But you tell yourself that it's worth it. That he is worth it. He’s been part of your life for so long."

Croucher went quiet for a moment. "But as time goes on, it gets harder and harder over the years to ignore the parts of your friend that you don’t like. You can't tell if he's changed, or if he's always been this way, and you've only now seen it. You try to explain it to yourself, you try to tell yourself, that the effort _is_ worth it, you try to tell yourself that you can't cut off such a large part of your life - of your heart. He's shared your life for so long, he is part of _you.”_

What Croucher was describing, Ramage realized, was not friendship, but brotherhood.  He kept quiet, and listened.

Croucher sat up, and shook his head.  “Until one day, you realize that you just can’t reconcile your soul and your best friend anymore.  And for me, that day came in the _Lion._ ”

Ramage remembered the day he had walked into the great cabin of the _Trumpeter_ , the first time he met Croucher. He had found Croucher waiting for him, his hatred for Ramage already fully blown. Hatred, Ramage realized, that had been fed to him deliberately, by a man Croucher thought was a true friend. Goddard had filled his friend with lies as casually as a man loaded a pistol.

What kind of man did something like that, he wondered? What kind of man used the pain and anger of his friend for his own purpose? Ramage had met madmen in the Navy; he had met men who gloried in other's pain. Goddard was not even one of those. He was something worse.

“He’s evil,” Ramage said. 

Croucher blinked in surprise.  “Yes, I suppose that he is.”

“Someone I know said she does not understand the hold he has over other men.” 

“He can be very charming when he wants to be,” Croucher said.  “There’s a reason he’s so popular at Court.  If you’d seen Jed at his best – or if you’d met him when you were as lonely as I was – _you_ would have liked him too.  It takes a long time to see what is under the charm.”

“Or to get on his wrong side,” Ramage said.

“We are both on his wrong side, now.  I embarrassed him publicly by cutting off my friendship with him.  He’ll do his best to ruin both of us, if he can.”  Croucher interlaced his fingers on the table top. 

“Let him try.  We are proof against him now.  We’ve both been harmed by him, but we’ve both survived.  This dispute between us – as far as I am concerned, it is over.”

“Have you any idea how angry that will make him?” Croucher said, a humourless smile quirking up his narrow lips.

“Good!” Ramage said.  He flicked his hand under his chin, the Italian sign for disgusted dismissal.  _"Let_ him come after us.  I am not a lieutenant any more.  I am not afraid of _him!"_

Croucher looked down at the table again.  His fingers knotted in and around themselves, as if he was trying to untangle his words through his hands.  “I tried to hang you, Ramage.”

“I know,” Ramage touched the side of throat.  “But you failed.” 

“If I’d succeeded –.”

“You didn’t,” Ramage interrupted.  “That’s what matters.” 

“But if I had, you would have been dead.  I wanted to _see_ you dead.  I don’t think it’s possible to make amends for such a wrong as that, but if there is, please name it.”

“There is nothing you can do to apologise,” Ramage said, shaking his head.  “There is only one thing.” 

“Name it, and it’s yours.”

“Write to my father, and tell him what you told me.  Everything.  Tell him everything you did, and why.” 

Croucher flinched.   “Write to the Earl of Blazey, and tell him I tried to _hang his son?”_

“Name it, you said,” Ramage reminded him.

“You don’t ask much, do you?  Just to put my own shame into writing, and send it to a man who probably despises me!” 

“You don’t know how much it would mean to my father!” Ramage said.  “He’ll value the truth more than you’ll ever know.  It burns him that he’s passed this feud on to me.  Please, Croucher.  This one thing… just this.”  

The old feud was an inheritance his father had regretted passing to his child.  It had been bad enough to endure his own shameful trial, but worse to see his son suffer under spite that was aimed for him. 

Croucher’s eyes were burning.  He looked down at his own hands.  “Very well.  I’ll write it.  I’ll send it via London as soon as we reach Lisbon.”

Ramage pushed back his chair and got to his feet.  “I have to go back to my ship,” he said.  “I’ll tell anyone who asks that the dispute is over.”

“You must not share the details!” Croucher protested.  “My daughter…” 

“No, of course not,” Ramage promised.  “I’ll tell whoever asks that you and I have reached a mutually satisfactory understanding.  If you agree that it is over, then it _is_ over.”

“Will you shake hands?” Croucher asked.

“I would like that.” 

Croucher got to his feet, and came around the corner of the table. 

Ramage looked him up and down.  “I can’t say that I like you,” he admitted.  “I don’t think we will ever be friends.  But you are not my enemy, and I am not yours.”

“That’s enough,”  Croucher nodded. 

Ramage held out his hand.  “To peace?” 

Croucher took it, and they shook hands sombrely.  “To peace.”

They went back up to the quarterdeck together. 

On the decks, the ship seemed almost supernaturally quiet.  It seemed to Ramage that every man in the _Hibernia_ was watching their captain, with the man they all knew was their captain’s enemy.  He could feel the eyes of the officer of the watch, as Croucher and Ramage waited awkwardly for the sideboys to get themselves together so that the _Dido_ ’s captain could be piped over the side with the proper salute. 

A man came marching up the main hatch, and striding aft. 

It was Sir Sidney Smith; hatless and coatless.  He must have heard that Ramage was aboard.  He saw Ramage standing next to Croucher, and his neck thickened visibly with outrage. 

“Captain Ramage!” he declared.

“Oh, _great,”_ Ramage murmured.  

“It’s all right, Sidney!” Croucher said, stepping forward, and raising his hand to ward off his Admiral.  “It’s quite all right, pull your horns in!” 

“Oh, it is, is it?” Sir Sidney demanded.  He snapped to a stop in front of Ramage and Croucher, and stared at Ramage with suspicion in his eyes. 

Ramage understood instinctively, that Sir Sidney Smith knew at least part of the story of Croucher’s daughter. 

“It _is_ all right,” Croucher said.  “We’ve had a long talk, Ramage and I, and  we have sorted out our differences.” 

“We have,” Ramage said, pitching his voice as clearly as he could, without making it obvious that he was also addressing the entire eight hundred men in the _Hibernia’s_ musterbook.  “The feud is resolved, once and for all.” 

“There, you see?” Croucher said to Sir Sidney Smith.    “Pull your horns in, my friend.  God is back in the main-top, and all’s well with the world.”

Ramage looked at Croucher, and the laugh burst out of him.   “And I suppose the Devil is in the cable tier?”

"This is true,"  Croucher swung his fierce face back to Ramage. "But the Devil is in the cable-tier during the dog-watches.   God is in the main-top for ever." 

Ramage laughed at him.  Croucher could only have heard that phrase from one man!  One man who trusted very few men; one man whose opinion Ramage had trusted for nearly twenty years.  There was nothing that Croucher could have said that could have resolved the feud faster. 

“I _beg_ your pardon?” Sir Sidney demanded, shooting his gaze toward the main-top of the _Hibernia_ _,_ as if Ramage and Croucher were both hallucinating.    

"It's all right, Sir Sidney," Ramage said. 

“Captain Ramage and I have a mutual friend,” Croucher observed. 

“An old and very dear friend,” Ramage said.  "Captain Croucher, there is _nothing_ you could have said that could have resolved this feud faster.  Will you shake hands with me before we depart, Croucher?  Here, with all watching?”   

* * *

 

The next morning, the two fleets parted company.  The sounds of saluting guns thumped the air, and powder smoke drifted on the breeze. 

It was a repeat of the 29th of November again, in reverse.  Two fleets had become one, and now one fleet was becoming two.  The Portuguese were going to begin a new life in South America.  The British were going back to resume their blockade of the now-French coast.  The Portuguese court had evacuated Lisbon, but the war would go on without them.

The _Hibernia,_ at the van of the British line, seemed garlanded with bouquets of smoke, as she banged her way through another twenty-one gun salute. 

The _Dido_ ’s decks were again thronged with officers and men.  All of Ramage’s lieutenants, the Marine officers, and most of the midshipmen were there.  It might be weeks, if not months, before the two groups of ships sighted each other again, and the saluting was almost festive.  Ramage could see men waving across the water from the _Foudroyant_ , as the departing fleets steered past each other on opposite tacks. 

It might be his imagination, but his men seemed more cheerful than usual this morning. His officers seemed to be grinning like idiots, as if it was Christmas, and not merely the 5th of December.  Someone in the afterguard kept singing the first few bars of _The Torre di Buranaccio_. 

Ramage stood by the rail, watching the _Hibernia._   Ancient Naval tradition ensured that the captain was uninterrupted, and he was left to his own thoughts.  He watched the _Hibernia_ as she rolled slowly past the _Dido_ , heading north to resume her blockade of Lisbon.

_'I wanted to hear your neck break.'_

Croucher’s words had been running through his mind all night.  Croucher had wanted Ramage dead, and he had tried to get it. 

Ramage had seen hangings in the Navy.  Ships did not have scaffolds.  The noose was put around the condemned man’s neck, and the other end of the rope would have been run through a block on the yardarm.  The condemned man was simply hauled up into the air by a team of seamen running with the other end of the rope. If he was lucky, his neck would have been broken instantly from the sudden upward jerk.  If he was unlucky, he would have been hauled up to strangle slowly, kicking and fighting uselessly at the end of the rope until he died. 

Ramage touched the side of his throat, where the knot would have rested. Croucher had tried to do that to Ramage. 

No, he realized.  _Goddard,_ not Croucher. 

Ramage would never have known the difference, but he would have been doubly murdered.  Killed by Croucher, and killed again through Goddard's lies to Croucher.  Goddard had used Croucher as casually as a man turned over a playing card. And if Croucher had succeeded, he would have become a murderer.  Croucher had been Goddard’s unthinking weapon, as much as the eighteen-pounders at Ramage’s side right now.

The sailor on the _Dido'_ s quarterdeck began humming the _Torre di Buranaccio_ again, and was shut up by his mates.  The urgent hushing distracted Ramage.  He walked to the binnacle, opened the drawer, and took out his telescope.  He walked back to the rail, and lined it on the _Hibernia’_ s stern. 

The _Hibernia_ was heeled over before the wind, giving the _Dido_ a clear view of her decks.  Ramage found the poop deck, and as if the lens had been drawn by an unseen hand he found himself staring directly at Croucher.

The shock of it almost made Ramage drop his glass.  The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Croucher was staring straight back at Ramage,  staring across at the _Dido_ with unaided eyes.  He felt that _frisson_ of shock, all over again. 

_'I wanted to hear your neck break…'_

Croucher had wanted him dead.  Croucher had blamed him for a crime he had not committed.  A man had attacked his daughter – Ramage could guess what ‘gross insults’ meant – and Croucher believed it had been him, because of the lies of a man named Vickery.

Whoever Vickery was, _he_ had to know about the attack.  ‘ _How would you even know about it?’_  Croucher had asked, but somehow Vickery had known about it…

Ramage’s mind leaped to the truth.  The hatred that burst in him was so pure that it felt as powerful as love.  Goddard told Vickery to say it, because Goddard did it himself. 

Ramage’s veins pounded with shock, and with certainty.  Croucher’s daughter had been attacked, but she had refused to name the man who did it.  She had refused to name the man, to preserve her father’s heart, and his career, and – ‘ _I’d have killed the man who did it with my bare hands’_ – maybe she had even feared for her father's life. 

Ramage lowered the glass, sickened and shaken, alone in the festive atmosphere of his own ship.  _Jedediah Goddard,_ he thought _.  Now I begin to hate you…_   

Did Croucher know the truth?  If he did not yet, he would soon figure it out.  He might _say_ he was not an intelligent man, but he could not ignore the obvious logical leap for long.

‘ _Do you see it, Ramage?  Do you?’_ No, Ramage decided,  Croucher already knew.  He must have worked it out in Cawsand Bay. He must have known the truth, all the way to Lisbon, and now all the way across the Atlantic.

Ramage found himself trembling with a sudden protective rage, almost like desire.  He was holding the telescope in front of his heart like a crucifix, his hands shaking.  He wanted to turn the _Dido,_ and chase after the _Hibernia._   He wanted to rush back to Croucher, to throw his arms around Croucher, and declare his own outrage and disgust and pity. 

The _Hibernia_ was sailing away, changing tack to get the better of this wind.  He would lose his view as the _Hibernia_ heeled over on the other tack.  He might not see Croucher again for years - if ever. This was his last chance... 

“Mr Bennett!” Ramage said.  “A signal, if you please!” 

“Sir?” 

 _“Hibernia’_ s number, please.  And ‘Bon Voyage!'  I’ll trouble you to spell it out telegraphically!” 

“Sir?  To the _Hibernia_ , sir?  Is that correct, sir?” 

“Yes, to the _Hibernia!”_

“Aye aye, sir!” 

He stared at the _Hibernia_ as the yeomen bent the signal flags on, and hoisted them. 

Goddard did not deserve the friendship of that man, he thought, with a sudden spasm of pain. Goddard did not deserve _anyone’s_ friendship! Croucher was not a likeable man. He was crotchety, and pedantic, and odd. He was prickly, and didactic, and inscrutable, and from his own account he had few friends – but those friends he did have cherished him. Croucher was crotchety and odd, but he deserved better than the friendship of Jed Goddard.

Yes, Ramage thought.  He would write to Croucher.  Croucher deserved better than Goddard!  If there was anything in Croucher that Ramage could find to like, then Ramage would find it.  He wanted Croucher to know Goddard was an evil parasitic outlier in the human race. He wanted him to know that he deserved better than Goddard. That man could _not_ go through life thinking that _Goddard_ was the best friend that he could hope for! If Lacey liked him, if Loach liked him, if even Hornblower confided in him, then Ramage would damn well try to like him too!

He saw the dots of the bundled signal flags climbing the _Hibernia’_ s signal halliards.  Croucher was sending his reply.  He held his breath as the flags climbed, and a jerk of the rope broke them open.  They were streaming out in the breeze. 

“Sir,” Bennett reported.  “Our number, from _Hibernia._   Thank you, and _au revoir.”_  

 _Au revoir_ … until we meet again. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	12. London intermission

Lady Sarah Ramage sent a silken thread through the eye of her needle, and ran the thread through. 

Across the drawing room, the conversation was still ongoing, but there was now a steely note in Gianna’s voice.  Count di-Whateveritwas seemed to be getting desperate – there was a note of pleading in _his_ voice.  Gianna had closed her fists into her lap, and her spine was as straight as any soldier’s. Whatever the Count wanted, the answer from his ruler was ‘no.’  Sarah did not speak Italian, but she could tell that this interview wasn’t going to end the way the Count di-Whateveritwas wanted it to. 

Sarah was being ignored, but that was the way she preferred it. 

She had never been fond of London before, but this was a different side to London to the boring fluttering of the fashionable _haut ton._   Actually watching the muscles of state-craft flexing before her eyes was fascinating.  Where the Marchesa di Volterra was, the seat of government of Volterra was also – and at present, the Volterrani seat of government was in the drawing room of the Ramage family’s house in Palace Street.  The petitioners who traipsed through the house raised no objections to the quiet English lady sitting with her embroidery on the other side of the drawing room.  They knew that Lady Ramage spoke no Italian.  They knew that Lady Ramage was a high-born aristocratic lady, and that she was the Marchesa's chaperon and companion.

They did _not,_ of course, know about the loaded duelling pistol that lay inside the embroidery basket at Sarah’s feet, nor that Sarah practised with it every week. 

Sarah bent her head back down to her embroidery.  She had grown tired of embroidering the Ramage griffin over and over, and now she was trying her best to embroider a little ship-of-the-line onto a pillowcase, copying a sketch that Nicholas had drawn for her. 

The interview was at an end, now.  Count Whateveritwas had given up.  He was getting to his feet, reluctantly.  Sarah watched quietly as the Count bowed over Gianna’s imperious hand, and kissed it obediently.  Pitti must have tugged at the bell-pull already, because the door was already opening, with a servant in the doorway to show the Count out. 

Gianna waited in her chair with ladylike immobility until the door was closed.  As soon as the Count was out of earshot, she leaped up out of her chair with an outburst of angry Italian and an irritated fling of both hands toward Count Pitti.    

Sarah put down her embroidery.  “What did that one want?” she asked.

“Bah,” Pitti said, dismissively.

“Him!” Gianna raged.  She marched over to the fireplace and thrust her hands toward the grate, as if demanding the fire to warm her hands now, right now, _accelerato._       _“Him!_   _He_ thinks he is better than he is!  And then he expects me to _agree_ with him that he is better than he is!”

“Another suitor,” Pitti explained to Sarah, cutting through Gianna’s tirade. 

“Another suitor!” Sarah said, astonished.  “Why, he’s the third this month!” 

Gianna was twenty-eight years old; hardly a debutante.  Sarah had been courted persistently by the annoying Ponsonby, but at least there had been only _one_  of Lord Ponsonby to fob off, not three all at once.    

“Greasy little man!  And he’s fat, too!” Gianna said, as if that was the final condemnation.  She turned to her cousin.  “ _Why_ are so many Italian men so fat, Antonio?  Why?  Tell me that?”    

“Pasta?” Pitti said, cryptically, flicking one hand up to express ‘I don’t know.’

Count di-Whateveritwas had not been fat, as far as Sarah could see.  He was just a normal-looking Italian gentleman, dark-haired and well-built.  She rather _liked_ that bold Roman-nosed look; she had liked it enough to marry one, after all.   “I thought he looked rather presentable,” she said. 

“Nonsense!  Too fat!  And I remember him as a boy!  He used to pick his nose!  Antonio, he is _not_ to be admitted to my presence again,” Gianna said Pitti.  “Not for at least six months.  Longer, if he sends us any silly letters.”

“I will make a note of it,” Pitti said.  “He was the last appointment of the day, at least.” 

“Why are they all coming out of the woodwork at once?” Sarah asked. 

“He wants to be married to the Marchesa di Volterra,” Pitti said. 

“Surely he must know that won’t make _him_ the Marchese?” Sarah asked. 

“No,” Gianna agreed.  “Under Volterrani law, he will never be the Marchese.  My husband will be my consort, but never the Marchese.”

“And Paolo is still your heir.  You made him Lord Nominee before you went to Paris.  And everyone knows this.  So why are there so many suitors now, all of a sudden?” 

Pitti inhaled sharply and looked at his cousin.  He said something to her in Italian; a question. 

“It’s five o’clock.  Are you interested in going for a promenade in the Park?” Gianna asked Sarah.

“Oh, yes,” Sarah said.  “I’m tired of sitting indoors.” 

“A ride will warm us both up nicely,” Gianna said, as Sarah knew she would.  Gianna would always rather ride than be driven.  She loved horses as much as Nico disliked them. 

“I’ll inform the stables,” Pitti said, “And the guards.”  He did not ring for a servant, but bowed politely and left the room. 

Obedient, as always, Sarah thought.  He was Gianna’s cousin, and a rich aristocrat in his own right, but he served her faithfully as a sort of Prime Minister.  There were many powerful men in London who shrank at the idea of debating European affairs  with a beautiful woman, but they burbled happily to Pitti in their gentlemen’s clubs.  They did not know that their opinions were transmitted _verbatim_ to the Marchesa di Volterra. 

As soon as Pitti was gone, Gianna swept across the room.  She sat down next to Sarah on the settee. 

“Did you change the subject deliberately?” Sarah asked.  

“No, of course not,” Gianna said. 

“Yes, you did.  You sent Antonio away.” 

“You are too much like Nico!” Gianna complained. 

“I don’t like being fobbed off with distractions,” Sarah said.  “Why are all the suitors after your hand now?  Paolo is your heir, isn’t he?” 

“Yes, he is.” 

“He will make a good Marchese one day.” 

Gianna shook her head.  “No!  He will make a _terrible_ Marchese!  He loves the sea, not Volterra!  He has built his life around the Navy.  Never and never will his country hold his whole heart.”

“Well, a man can have two loves,” Sarah said.  “That much I know.” 

Nicholas had had two loves; and he still did.   Sarah might have been jealous if she had not seen Gianna and Nicholas together, and recognised within minutes how utterly unsuited they were to each other.  They spoke to each other in the same way Sarah spoke to her brother: with deep affection dancing with aggression. The Marchesa di Volterra would have exploded with outrage if anyone asked her to embroider pillow cases for her husband  – and yet Nicholas adored those little domestic gestures of affection.  Conversely, it had never occurred to Nicholas that the Marchesa di Volterra ruled her own country, and would never need to be ‘handled’ by a man.  Nicholas needed a wife; Gianna needed a consort.  They _absolutely_ did not need each other.  

“But a ruler cannot have two loves!” Gianna insisted.  “Volterra will need a very wise ruler on the Alabaster Throne once Bonaparte is gone, and Paolo does not have that wisdom.  All the old traditions have been upturned: this is a new world we live in.  My rule must be absolutely secure.  I cannot afford to make mistakes.” 

 “So what will you do?” 

“There is only one thing I _can_ do.  I must marry a man who will strengthen my rule, and produce an heir of my own blood.  I don’t have any particular man in mind yet, but I must choose _one._   I should _like_ to have a man I can love, but I don’t think I will have that luxury.”  

“Any woman is fortunate if she can marry a man she loves,” Sarah said.  And where was Nicholas now, she wondered?  “But that doesn’t explain why they are all trying for your hand _now?_ ” 

“Well,” Gianna said.  She wasn’t happy with the lie of her skirts.  She arranged them again, turning herself on the settee to face Sarah directly.   

There was a knock at the door, and a moment later Pitti came into the room. 

“My dear cousin,” he said to Gianna.  “Mr Canning has sent one of his young gentlemen around.  He is downstairs, and desires urgently to speak to you.”

“Mr Canning?” Gianna asked.  “But of course, send him in at once!  Perhaps he has heard news of our correspondent in Turin?”  She sprang up from the settee, and stepped quickly across to the upright armchair she had been sitting in before. 

“He says he has better news than that,” Pitti said.  He gave his cousin a moment to arrange her skirts the way she wanted, and assume a straight-backed posture suitable for a ruler giving an audience.  Then he opened the door, and spoke to someone on the other side.  A moment later, he ushered a man into the room. 

“My lady, may I introduce Mr Carpenter.  He serves in the Aliens Office.” 

The young man seemed surprised to find himself being introduced to a beautiful young woman, instead of the ferocious old dowager he must have been expecting.  He bowed to Gianna.  “My lady.” 

“I am charmed to make your aquaintance, Mr Carpenter,” Gianna said, smiling.  “Please take a seat, if you wish.” 

Carpenter sat down.  Pitti stood against the mantelpiece, subtly withdrawing from the centre so he did not weaken his cousin’s authority.  Sarah picked up her embroidery and pretended to count her stitches. 

 “Mr Canning desires me to inform you that we have this morning received excellent news.”

“Tell me,” Gianna ordered.  “I am impatient – do not make me wait!” 

“My lady,” Carpenter’s eyes went to Sarah, sitting at the side of the conversation.    “My news is not yet public knowledge – it contains delicacies that must be withheld from the official record…” 

“You may speak in front of Lady Ramage,” Gianna said.  “She is as a sister to me, and I confide in her absolutely.” 

“Of course,” Carpenter bowed.  “We have received wonderful news from Portugal.  The _Confiance_ has arrived with Lord Strangford, our Ambassador to Lisbon, carrying despatches.” 

“The last news _we_ had, Lord Strangford had been thrown out of Lisbon,” Gianna asked.  “Surely he is not the Ambassador any longer…?” 

“Being thrown out of Lisbon appears to be the new fashion, milady!” Carpenter smirked.  “All of Lisbon has been thrown out of Lisbon!  The Prince Regent and all his family have evacuated the entire court to Brazil!”

“Brazil!” Gianna exclaimed. 

“The French are in full possession of Portugal, but the Portuguese Navy has been denied them.”  Carpenter grinned.  “And Mr Canning required me to give you these.”  He held out a set of papers. 

Gianna took them from Carpenter, and turned them over in her hands. 

Carpenter bent forward, elbow on his knee, pointing at the papers that Gianna was turning over in her hands.  “The top one is Lord Strangford’s despatch, which will be gazetted in due course,” Carpenter explained.  “The other is a more confidential document.  As soon as Mr Canning read it, he desired a copy of it to be made and brought to your hand directly as it concerns your own house.”

Gianna broke the seal.  She unfolded the paper, and began to read it quietly.  Her brows went up.  “Paolo!”  She seemed startled, rather than worried. 

Sarah itched to snatch the letter from her hand.  There might be a mention of Nicholas in there! 

“The British fleet?” Pitti asked.  “Is all well with the blockading squadron?” 

“Yes, my lord, all is well,” Carpenter said.  “Six British ships are escorting the Portuguese fleet to Brazil – the rest are still blockading the Tagus.”

“Do you know where HMS _Dido_ is?” 

“She is on her way to Brazil, my lord.” 

Sarah bit her lip.  It was no pretence to look down at her embroidery this time. Brazil?  She knew exactly how far away Brazil was.  For a moment, she felt tears sparkle at her eyelids, and the stitches on the pillowcase blurred, but she blinked the tears away.    

Gianna put the letter down.  She turned to Pitti and Sarah, and addressed them both.

“Paolo volunteered to go ashore under a flag of truce with Lord Strangford, and speak to the Prince Regent himself.  He made a very good impression on the Portuguese – Lord Strangford says Paolo helped him persuade the Prince to quit Lisbon.  Now he is on his way to Brazil, with Nicholas, and the _Dido_ ,” Gianna said.  She handed the letter to Pitti, who skimmed through it rapidly.

“Paolo’s first diplomatic mission, and a great success,” Count Pitti said. 

“Count Orsini’s name may well never appear in the London Gazette, my lady,” Carpenter warned.  “It might not be to our advantage to report everything exactly as it happened.” 

“I understand,” Gianna said. 

“As we speak, Lord Strangford is at his home in Chapel Hill with Captain Yeo.  They are re-writing this despatch, making it suitable for publication.  There will need to be a little obfuscating, Mr Canning desired me to say, so the final publication will not appear as it has here.  In confidence, however, you may be assured that _this_ account is the truth of the matter.” 

“Please tell Mr Canning he may publish what he pleases, but I will broadcast Count Orsini’s success through my servants in Tuscany.”

“News in Tuscany will reach Buonaparte’s ears, Cousin,” Pitti warned her, folding the letter and putting it down.  “He will know he has a new threat on his flank.”

“The news will reach the Volterrani people first!  Every small success helps to bolster my people in Tuscany.” Gianna grinned.  “They will know that I am not the _only_ basilisk to hatch from an alabaster egg!” 

“This is not a small success, my lady!”  Carpenter exulted.  “We have a commitment from Dom Joao that he will open the ports of Brazil to British trade as soon as he reaches the Americas.  We will have access to Brazilian timber.  Brazilian cotton.  Brazilian tobacco.  We need not coddle the Americans any more – we can get what we need from Brazil, and tell the Americans where they can take their impudence.”

“Bonaparte has blundered,” Gianna said. 

“My lady, if any more is heard,” Carpenter said, “please be certain that we will inform you as soon as we know it ourselves.”

“Thank you,” Gianna said.  “And thank Mr Canning as well.” 

“It is only a pleasure, my lady,” Carpenter said.  He rose to his feet and bowed. 

Pitti escorted him out.

“Poor Portugal!” Gianna said, as soon as the door was closed.  She let the bundle of papers drop to her lap, and folded her hands over them.  “Oh, poor Portugal!  Those poor people!”

“I thought you said it was a wonderful news!” Sarah said, astonished. 

“Oh, it is – for _me_ – but not for the people of Portugal!  I know how things are when the French move in and occupy a place.  I have seen it with my own eyes, Sarah!  He will send their army away, and he will move his army in.  He will demand money from the tradesmen.  He will demand food from the peasants.  He will comb through the monasteries and the palaces, looking for treasures.  And everywhere, _everywhere,_ the pride of the Portuguese people will be trampled upon.”

“You didn’t say anything to Mr Carpenter?” 

“No,” Gianna said.  “One never betrays weakness in front of an ally!  But oh, poor Portugal!  Those poor people, left to face the anger of Bonaparte!  I feel for them, _cara!”_  

“At least we know that Nicholas is all right.”

“Yes – and Paolo.  I am very proud of him.  His first diplomatic mission – and I did not even have to give him any orders!” 

“Yes,” Sarah said.  “And you were about to tell me why he suddenly is not your heir.” 

Gianna blinked at the sudden change of topic.  “He is my heir.”

“Then why the suitors?” 

Gianna threw her hands up.  “You are too much like Nico!” she complained. 

“Yes,” Sarah said.  “I am implacable, I know.  Englishwomen are like compass needles, you see.  We don’t like being turned around.  This is the third suitor this month, and you were going to tell me why.”

“Yes,” Gianna said.  “You have a right to know.  The rumours are going around now, and you are in the thick of them.”  She arranged her skirts around herself, carefully. 

“Which rumours?”

“Rumours about you, _cara mia_ ,” Gianna said.  “Or rather, about you and Nico.”

“Me?”

Gianna still wasn’t happy with the lie of her skirts.  She arranged them again, settling the folds of fabric around her legs, and then turned to face Sarah directly. 

“People are looking at you – and they are coming to new conclusions.” 

“I don’t understand what it has to do with me?”

“ _Cara_ ,” Gianna said, and then stopped.  She started again.  “People _do_ look at us, you know.  They wonder at you and me, and Nico, living under the same roof.”

“I know,” Sarah said.  “My brother keeps telling me.”  

“Lord Ramage’s _menage-a-trois,”_ Gianna said.   

“I don’t care what Society says.  The only people whose opinions matter to me know better.” 

“But even so, you must know that for many years, Nico and I were … very familiar.”

“I know you were his lover,” Sarah said.  

“For six years,” Gianna said.  “And yet, in those years, there were no babies.” 

She paused, expectantly, waiting for Sarah’s reaction. 

 “Sometimes it takes time,” Sarah repeated the reassurance the doctor had given her. 

“But not six years.  Six years is too long.  After six years, people have come to believe that I am barren.  Paolo is accepted as my heir, because no-one _now_ still expects me to produce my own heir.  This is why I made him Lord Nominee before I tried to go back to Volterra.” 

Gianna’s face winced momentarily; a tiny fluttering of her eyelashes, so rapid that Sarah would not have noticed it if they were not sitting so close.  Whatever had happened to her while under Bonaparte’s power, the memories weighed heavily on her. 

“But now,” Gianna continued, “they are looking at you, and at Nico ... and they has noticed that Lord Ramage has not fathered a baby with _you,_ either.” 

Sarah sucked in a breath, and found that her bodice suddenly felt far too tight.  “They think the problem lies with Nicholas,” she whispered.   

“And this is why they are suddenly interested in me all over again.  They say, perhaps the Marchesa is not barren after all.  _Allora,_ perhaps I can be the father of the next Marchese!” 

“Except that there isn’t a problem with Nicholas!” Sarah insisted.  “He has been at sea!  The doctor said these things take time - time which we simply have not had!”

“They don’t know that,” Gianna said. 

“At any rate, just because _you_ didn’t have a baby doesn’t mean that _he_ can’t!” 

“None of the other…” Gianna cut off her words. 

“None of the other _what?”_ Sarah said, sharply. 

“There were others,” Gianna said, reluctantly.  “He was not faithful to me.”  She  shrugged her shoulders; whether in dismissal or embarrassment, Sarah could not tell. 

“How do you know?”

“It doesn’t matter now.  I was not faithful to him either.  There was a Swede …”

“A _Swede?”_   Sarah asked, incredulously.  She tried to imagine the fiery Gianna together with a Swede, and could not. 

“He was nothing.  He went back to Sweden," Gianna waved away the memory of the Swede.  "But Nico – Nico has _never_ fathered a child.  Not with _any_ woman.  And that is why the suitors are coming out of the wood.” 

“They think Nicholas is sterile!” Sarah said in despair.  “What will they do when I have a baby?  When I give Nicholas an heir?” 

“If you _do_ , the royal courts of Europe will decide that the Marchesa di Volterra is barren, and there will be no more suitors.  Paolo will inherit.”

“And if I _don’t?_ ” Sarah said.

“If you don’t, I must marry one of my suitors, whether I like it or not, because the problem must lie with him.  I must, to preserve my rule.  And I _will,_ because Paolo will make a _terrible_ Marchese.” 

“And Nicholas will be the last Earl of Blazey.” 

Gianna sighed.  “Either his line ends, or mine does.  Oh, my dear Sarah.  Do you realize how important you are?  The future of _my_ country rests on _you.”_  


	13. Storm and conquest

  _‘_ _December 8, 1807_ _.’_   Ramage dipped his pen in his inkwell.  He copied Southwick’s guess of their position into his logbook, and then wrote carefully, _‘Ship surrounded by thick fog.’_

He was tempted to add ‘ _Blind as bats_ ,’ under the words, but decided not to.  This book would have to be returned to the Admiralty in a few months and the clerks were not noted for their sense of humour.  He put his stationery away, and went out to the poop deck. 

 As always, fog at sea was a very different experience to fog ashore.  Ashore, one had the guidance of a solid, defined landscape to judge distances.  But at sea, fog turned the world into a shapeless nothingness.  Beyond the ship, sea and sky blended into a globe of grey.  The ship might as well have been trapped inside a pearl.  It was a Sunday, and the ship’s company had been released to spend the afternoon at their leisure.  Most of them seemed to find the fog as claustrophobic as he did, because he could hear no music or singing this afternoon.

 Ramage leaned on the rail of the ladder that led down from the poop to the quarterdeck.  The wood was damp and clammy under his palms. 

 There were soft voices speaking just below him on the quarterdeck; another of Jackson’s Italian lessons.  The damp air didn’t dispel their voices, but they were speaking softly, as if even Orsini felt oppressed by the fog.  

 There were ships out there.  Ramage had heard bells tolling in the fog – but they were blind.  Somewhere out there lay the _London, Marlborough, Monarch, Elizabeth,_ and _Bedford._   Yorke and the _Amethyst_ were out there too.  And all around them was the Portuguese fleet, all rolling silently on the same greasy sea, all blindfolded by the same fog. 

 He climbed the ladder to the poop deck.  Southwick was glowering over the taffrail into the sea, as if the slick surface had offended him. 

 “Sir,” Southwick raised his hand to his hat.  “Come and have a look.” 

 Ramage went over and stared down into the water.  The green-grey surface blurred into the fog less than three ships’ lengths away, but the stern of the _Dido_ was lifting slowly.  Ramage waited for the _Dido_ to finish rising, and then start to sink again.  It felt as if the ship under him was breathing; great _deep_ breaths, too, on the lung of the Atlantic. 

 He knew that to an outside observer, the _Dido_ would look like a piece of kelp floating just off a beach: her huge weight was pressed backward by the swell rising under her bow, and then she slowly rolled forward back into exactly the same position.  

 “Big swells,” Ramage observed.  “Long fetch.”

 “And they’re getting bigger by the minute,” Southwick growled.  “I’ve been timing the crests, sir, and they’re getting shorter too.  This is the dog before its master, I reckon.”

 “There’s something big moving out there,” Ramage agreed. 

 “It’ll be coming in our direction before midnight, I think, sir.” 

 Ramage turned away, to stare up at the mizzen mast.  The truck of the mast was just in view.  He cupped a hand to his mouth.  “Masthead there!” 

 There was a moment before the reply came back.  “Deck there!”

 “What do you see up there?”

 “Nowt, sirr!” 

 “Too thick,” Southwick grumbled.  “Too thick by half – and I don’t mean the lookout.”

 Ramage nodded.  “I’ll have everything above the lower masts sent down, Mr Southwick.  And have the storm jib brought up, and bent on.  We won’t wait for it to hit us.” 

 “Aye aye, sir.”  Southwick sniffed.  He walked away.  Within a few steps, a thin skein of fog had fallen between his back and Ramage.  A moment later, Ramage heard orders being shouted for the sail trimmers.  The afternoon of leisure was over, but he suspected his men had already guessed it would be coming.  Everyone could see that swell for themselves. 

 He walked back to the quarterdeck rail and stared into the fog, willing another ship to solidify alongside the Dido, but the fog was a translucent screen. 

* * *

 

Ramage was woken up by something heavy flying into his face.  He woke up with a jerk, and realized that he’d woken himself up with his own arm.  He had been sleeping on his back, with one arm thrown up on his pillow.  Gravity had taken his elbow like a bell’s clapper and dashed it into his face. 

 He sat up.  The cot was swinging from side to side on its cords, like a church bell.  The grey outline of the skylight was rolling back and forth above him. 

 The ship was pitching heavily, and the sound of the sea and wind was a roar.  How had he slept through it building up to _this?_   And why the devil had the officer of the watch not called him?  They could not still be racing along under topsails and courses, could they? 

 He put his legs over the side of the cot, fumbling for his dressing gown that lay over the back of his chair, and shouted for Silkin.  He struck a light with his tinderbox and lit his own lantern before Silkin arrived, hanging onto the side of the bedplace’s door for balance.  “Sir?”

 “I’m going up on deck.  What time is it?” 

 “Just gone three bells, I think, sir.” 

 “You think, or you know?” Ramage demanded, annoyed by the vague answer.  He found his hair ribbon, and tied back his queue. 

 “I was asleep, sir!” Silkin protested.  “I don’t know.” 

 “Well, next time say so, then!” Ramage snapped at him. 

 He felt irritated by Silkin, irritated by his own queue, irritated that the officer on deck had not thought to wake the captain as the weather grew worse.  The cord of his dressing gown caught on the back of the chair, and he swore at it, and yanked it loose.   “I’m going on deck – where are my breeches?” 

 A few minutes later he went out on deck.  The wind and rain struck him in the face, a cold insult to his still-sleepy skin.  He flinched from it, pulling his head down low, and swore again.  He hated being woken from a deep sleep.  He had heard of better officers who could leap from a deep sleep and go straight into action – ‘four o’clock in the morning courage’ – but he was not one of them, and right now he hated those men who were with all his soul. 

 The quarterdeck was dark.  Ramage could hear the wind yowling through the rigging, hear the boom of water in the dark, tumbling around them.  The rain, the spray, and the darkness blinded him.  He could hear the howl of the storm, but see nothing. 

 The men at the wheel – four of them, he saw – were standing with their legs staggered, braced against the pitching of the ship.  Handling the wheel was heavy work in this weather – steering to starboard as the Dido’s bow shouldered the distant swell, and then hauling the spokes to port again as she shuddered down into the trough on the other side.   It was impossible to steer a course in this weather; the best the men could hope to do was keep the staysails drawing steadily so that the Dido lay as stable as she could be.  They needed those sails to keep the ship pointing in a safe direction, or the Dido would roll wildly like a dismasted hulk.  In this weather, the only goal of sailhandling was survival, not movement. 

 Ramage had mis-tied his queue.  He felt it come loose, and a moment later his hair was in his eyes and his teeth, flapping wetly.  His eyes adjusted to the dark, and he made his way over to the officer of the watch, knees bent against the leaping deck.  It was Loach. 

 “Mr Loach!”  He had to raise his voice to make himself heard. 

 He could not see Loach’s ruined face.  The man was wrapped up in oilskins, only his eyes and nose visible.  “Sir!” Loach bawled back like a bull. 

 “What sail are we carrying?”

 “Storm stays’ls only, sir!”  Loach replied. "As ordered!  No damage yet, sir!  She's taking it well!" 

 The storm staysails were extra-thick canvas, triangular sails set between the masts.  They were just enough to keep the ship facing in one direction, preventing her from being pooped, or broached by the great swells racing out of the darkness. 

 There was a shriek of laughter, carried on the wind.  In the noise around them it was hard to pick out where the laughter had come from, but he could see a pair of figures standing by the rail.  Only one man in the ship filled out his oilskins so well that he looked like a hot-air balloon.  That was Southwick. 

 Ramage let go of the rail, and climbed up the deck hand-over-hand along the lifeline rigged that afternoon. 

 As Ramage made his way across the deck, a wild surge of water in the dark lifted the rail high into the air, as if the ship herself was trying to take off like a swan.  The other man with Southwick was Orsini, and the two of them laughed again. 

They were having fun, Ramage realized.  Southwick had been bred to the sea, Orsini had run away to sea, but both men shared a love for the ocean.  They were excited by the challenge of handling a big ship in heavy weather, and thrilled by the forces of nature at its most wild. 

 Ramage fetched up against the rail, holding onto it with one hand.  Orsini saw Ramage arrive.  The stern lantern gave off just enough light to show his face.  He grinned at Ramage in wide-eyed glee and saluted with his free hand.  “Captain, sir!”

 “Mr Loach and I decided not to wake you, sir!”  Southwick used one hand to direct his voice into Ramage’s ear.  “We furled the topsails an hour ago!”

 “Do you know our position?”  Ramage asked. 

 “No, sir, but the Eight Rocks can’t be far away!” 

 The Eight Rocks, just north of the tiny island of  Porto Santo:  a cluster of partially submerged rocks, lying in wait for unwary, inexperienced, or just unlucky crews.  Southwick didn’t know what the Portuguese who owned Madeira called them, but they had been a mortal danger to many ships in the past. 

 “This is going to be a Force Ten!” Southwick shouted.  For a moment Ramage did not know what he was talking about, and then remembered Croucher’s little book. 

 The ship rolled.  Water sluicing up from the scuppers and washing around their legs.  Ramage’s stockings were immediately cold and soggy inside his shoes.  A sudden rock of the ship pushed Southwick into Ramage’s shoulder, and the two men gripped each other briefly for balance.  Southwick looked wild.  His hair was a wet halo around his head, snaking in the wind like a Medusa.  In the dim glow of the binnacle light, his eyes were red with tiredness and salt spray, but fierce, like one of the old Norse gods. 

 “She’s holding up well, sir!” Orsini shouted.  “A good strong ship for weather like this!  _Che_ _bello_ _!”_  

 “I don’t think our passengers are having half as much fun!” Southwick shouted. 

  _“Si!”_ Orsini said.  “A lot of praying is happening on the orlop deck tonight!”

 “God help sailors on a night like this!” Ramage agreed. 

* * *

 

The _Dido_ lay under her storm staysails all night, trying to keep her position in the sea.  Dawn crept up on them, but daylight did not break.  The master had followed his dog, and they were now in the grip of the storm. 

 The seas stayed high and wild all through that day.  Ocean and sky were a grey churning mass.  The horizon could not even be guessed at.  The _Dido’s_ massive hull, all 2000 tons of her, rolled more in a staggering wallow.  The sea came in through the scuppers on the leeward side, sluicing over the decks, and off again. Her hatches were sealed as best she could be to preserve her bouyancy, but water seeped into her, so that every deck was wet.   High mounds of sea were passing on either side, and the Dido climbed over and between them as if the sight of them tired her.  Up, and over, again and again, in an exhausting battle. 

It was tiring just to exist.  Every man was wet, and cold, and their clothing itched with the scratchiness of dried salt.  Even off-watch, one could not rest.  Leaning one’s weight against the violent movement meant that one’s muscles were always moving, always bracing back and forth, and it was impossible to relax completely.  Impossible to sleep properly, impossible to keep dry, impossible to light the galley fire for hot food. Without a warm meal inside one, there was nothing to ease one’s tired muscles, nothing to help one warm up from the inside.  It was cold, wet,  cramped, exhausting, aggravating.  Life shrank to sullen endurance.

 In the great cabin, the view through the glass stern lights was even more alarming than it was from the deck.  The roar of crashing water was muted, but seen through the sternlights the crests seemed to soar above the ship, as if they were under water already.  The sea was whipped into white lace over deep impenetrable black, the crazed foam writhing over the water in a pattern that mesmerised the eye even as it sucked strength from the spirit. 

 Not a hurricane, Ramage reminded himself.  Nasty, yes, but _not_ that again.  He had once thought that sailors who talked of hurricanes were exaggerating, but since seeing one himself he knew that if anything they had talked it down, not up.  Every storm he had seen since had been measured up against his own hurricane.  His hurricane – and Croucher’s.   

 He turned his back on the view, and turned to Jackson, who was trying to write with an inkwell that wanted to throw itself off the desk.   “I’m going to write to the Rake’s friend Beaufort and tell him his scale was a big fat help.” 

 “I’ll countersign that letter, sir,” Jackson said, grimly.  “We’ll send him a Round Robin.” 

Ramage looked at him, sharply, but that had just been an offhand comment, and a coincidence.  Jackson was scattering sand over his wet ink, holding onto the table with his other hand.  He grunted with irritation at the difficulty of pouring the sand back into the bottle again. 

 “What the devil?”  Ramage jumped, as a stream of water suddenly dove out of the deckhead above the desk. 

  “Good God!” Jackson leaped up and grabbed the stack of papers from the desk, before the water could smear the ink into an unreadable mess.  The ship’s timbers were working hard, groaning back and forth as the hull bent and flexed, and the seam had opened just enough to let water in.

 “Drag the table out of the way!” Ramage ordered. 

 “Pity we can’t put a bucket under it, sir!” 

 “It’ll just have to run in the scuppers.  Make sure the books are covered!”  The stream of water danced back and forth as the Dido rolled in the storm, drawing an arc onto the patterned canvas on the deck. 

 “She’s working hard,” he observed. 

 “She’s working too hard, sir,” Jackson said, frowning up at the deckhead.  “She needs to be docked, if you’ll pardon me saying so.”

 “She’s fine,” Ramage said.  “She’s a new ship.  And there’s nothing we can do about it anyway, until the storm blows out.”  

* * *

 

 On the third day the storm blew itself out.   

The waves seemed to collapse.  The sky cleared, and the _Dido_ seemed to quieten like a horse coming back into control.  The galley fires were lit again, and Ramage had a hot cup of tea with his breakfast.  The masthead lookouts went aloft, and reported down to Kenton that they could see nothing.  They were alone.  The storm had dispersed the entire fleet.

  “Mr Southwick,” Ramage said, reluctantly.  “I’ll trouble you to lay a course for the fleet’s rendezvous, as soon as you have our position fixed.”

 “Cape Verde, aye aye, sir,” Southwick said, cheerfully.  He squinted up at the morning sky,  as if daring it to cloud over at noon. 

 “Cape Verde, sir?” Orsini said, touching his hat.

 “That’s the rendezvous,” Ramage said.  “You were there in the _Hibernia_ when it was announced.” 

 “Yes, sir,” Orsini agreed, but he looked troubled. 

 Ramage turned to Kenton.  “Mr Kenton, we’ll have the topmasts sent up this morning, as soon as breakfast is squared away.” 

 Ramage shared out the rest of the day’s work with the other lieutenants.  “Tell the working parties I’m very happy about the way we rode it out,” Ramage confided.  “Not a sail lost, not a spar broken, not so much as a single broken bone.  It will be interesting to see how many of the Portuguese can say the same.” 

 “It will be very interesting to see how many of the _British_ can say the same,” Kenton said, and to Ramage’s surprise the other lieutenants agreed cheerfully. 

 The party broke up, the lieutenants going to their divisions to get their working parties into movement as soon as breakfast was done.   Ramage was left alone. 

 Dom Rodrigo was standing by the rail.  He was holding onto the ship with one hand, and holding his hat in the other as if wondering if he dared to put it on his head again.   

 “Dom Rodrigo,” Ramage called.  “Good morning, _senhor_.”

 “Good morning, captain.” 

 “How have your countrymen fared?”

 “Most of them are praying to thank God for their deliverance from the storm.  I passed on your message that the Dido has seen some worser storms than this, but I don’t think they are believing me.” 

 “Tell them we have lost not a single sail, or a spar, and there have been no serious injuries.” 

 “Captain?” Dom Rodrigo raised his eyebrows, quizzically, “I am not a sailor, but it looks to me that the ship has lost her masts?” 

 “Not at all,” Ramage said.  “When we know we are facing a storm, we send down the topmasts, and stow them safely on the deck out of harm’s way.”  He led Dom Rodrigo over the deck, and pointed to where they were stowed, across the Dido’s upper deck.  “There they are, safe and sound.  We will send them aloft after breakfast.  Within a few hours we will be as seaworthy as if the storm never happened.” 

 “Very – what is the word – ‘prescient’,” Dom Rodrigo said.  “And like this, you blockade all of Europe?”

 “Just like this,” Ramage agreed.  

 “But you have pumps going, too?”  He pointed to the flow of water, channeling through the scuppers.  “The ship, it is leaking?” 

  “All ships leak,” Ramage promised smoothly.  “We may have loosened a few seams in the storm, that is all.  We will be able to pump it all out in a few hours.” 

 He was buggered if he’d admit to the Portuguese that the minor leak that had pestered the Dido for six months had suddenly doubled over the last three days.

 “I will tell my countrymen there is nothing to worry about,” Dom Rodrigo said. 

 “That will set their minds at rest.  If you’ll excuse me, Dom Rodrigo?” 

 “Of course, of course,” Dom Rodrigo retreated back to the rail again. 

  “Sir,” Orsini stepped into his path, bobbling on his toes with nervous energy.  “Begging your pardon, sir, but permission to make a suggestion, sir?” 

 Ramage stared at him.  “Go on.”

 “May I propose we go straight to Salvador instead of Cape Verde, sir?”

 “Salvador?” Ramage asked. 

 “It’s on the coast of Brazil, north of Rio, sir.” 

 “I know where Salvador is!” Ramage said, letting a warning tone enter his voice.  “Why Salvador?” 

 “I think the Prince Regent is going there first, sir, not to Cape Verde.  I don’t think he _intends_ going to Cape Verde at all, unless his ship is sinking under him,  sir.”

 “Why not?” 

 Ramage was aware that Kenton and Southwick were coming over to listen to Orsini make his case. 

 “Because Salvador was the first, sir,” Orsini said, earnestly.  “The first Portuguese landing place, sir.  I heard them talking about it in the Palace of Mafra – I don’t think they knew I understood, sir.  Rio de Janeiro is bigger and richer, but Salvador was the _first._ ” 

 “What difference does it make?” Kenton asked Orsini.  “One city is as good as another.”

 “Brazil isn’t one country, like England, sir,” Orsini said.  “It’s a whole cluster of colonies.  Like the United States, only _not_ united.  Salvador and Rio de Janeiro are rivals.  If the Prince Regent goes directly to Salvador first, it will say to Salvador that they _are_ still part of the Portuguese Empire.  The new Empire has to _start_ with Salvador, even if it ends up in Rio.”

 “The rendezvous is at Cape Verde,” Southwick reminded Ramage.  “We’re supposed to head for Cape Verde if anything should happen to the fleet.”

 “ _Has_ anything happened to the fleet?” Kenton said.  “For all we know, the rest of the fleet is just over the horizon.  We might arrive at Cape Verde, and find ourselves the only ship there.  Pretty silly we’ll look then.”

 “We should go to Cape Verde,” Southwick said.  “That’s the rendezvous.”

 “Salvador,” Orsini said, his eyes imploring.  “The Prince Regent is not a sailor, sir.  He is thinking about _power_.  Power means Salvador.”

 “Making plans and then changing them hardly seems like the action of a powerful man,” Kenton said. 

 Southwick sniffed expressively.    

 “I didn’t say I thought he was _clever!_ ” Orsini said, defensively.  “Only that he will go to Salvador.  I’m sure of it!”

 “That’s enough,” Ramage said, shutting down the argument.  He had heard enough.  He welcomed his officers’ opinions, but he did not want them  debating on the quarterdeck like street hawkers discussing the price of oysters. 

 “Gentlemen, you have your orders.  You are dismissed to them.” 

 “Aye aye, sir.”  They dispersed. 

 Ramage stood by the quarterdeck rail.  He stared out at the sea, but it gave him no answers.  He turned and faced forward, and noticed that a few of the Portuguese passengers were coming up the ladder to the quarterdeck.  They seemed very uncertain of themselves, holding onto the ship as they walked as if the wild weather could return at any moment.  Dom Rodrigo still stood at the forward end of the quarterdeck, looking over the side and holding on to the hammock nettings for balance.  

 For a moment Ramage thought about asking Dom Rodrigo what he thought, and then dismissed the idea.  He would not subject his decision to a council of war.  His father had called councils of war a coward’s alibi for doing nothing, and Ramage agreed.  Councils of war were only a way of spreading around the responsibility to more shoulders – and the blame, if something went wrong.  That was not Ramage’s way.  The Dido was his ship; _his_ responsibility; he alone would ‘answer to the contrary at his peril.’   The final decision was his alone. 

 His orders were to sail to Cape Verde – but his orders were also to stay with the Prince Regent.  If Orsini was right, then his orders were contradictory.  And Orsini would not go so far as to argue with his captain in front of the other officers unless he was absolutely certain.  On the quarterdeck, Ramage was not his Uncle Nico. 

 Cape Verde was the logical rendezvous for an ill-prepared fleet: a friendly harbour, halfway to Brazil.  Cape Verde was almost on a line leading between Madeira and Brazil.  If Cape Verde did turn out to be empty, they would lose only a few days’ sail going out of their way. 

 Besides, the other five British captains, accustomed to carrying out an admiral’s orders, would head straight for Cape Verde anyway.  The other five captains had not heard the conversation Orsini had.  It seemed like very long odds to wager on,  based on nothing more than Orsini’s grasp of a secretive royal council, held in a language he only partly understood. 

 Eavesdropped, rather, in a language none of the Portuguese _knew_ he understood. 

 Ramage turned on his heel, and called across to Southwick.  “Mr Southwick!”

 “Sir?” 

 “Lay us a course for Salvador, if you please.”

 

* * *

 

 “Deck there!  Sail ho!” 

 The cry echoed down from aloft.  Ramage looked up into the rigging.

 Kenton picked up the speaking trumpet.  “Where away?” 

 “Broad on the starboard quarter!” 

 Ramage shaded his eyes and stared up into the rigging.  He could see the lookout,  high above at the masthead, one arm stabbing out across the sky as if they could see what he saw.   “Can you see what it is?”

 “No, sir!  It’s too hazy!” 

 The Dido has sailed south for two days, entirely alone.  The weather was gradually warming up, and they had slipped over the invisible Tropic of Cancer this morning. 

 “Mr Blake,” Ramage said.  “Aloft with a glass, if you please.” 

 “Aye aye, sir.”  Blake took the telescope from the binnacle drawer, darted forward, and a moment later was scrambling up the main shrouds. 

 “The fleet, d’ye think, sir?”  Kenton asked. 

 “We’ll see soon enough,” Ramage said.  “Prepare to come about – we’ll tack up toward them and see what we can see!” 

 “Aye aye, sir,” Kenton agreed happily.  He turned away, shouting through the speaking trumpet to the sailhandlers. 

 A few minutes later, the Dido was close-hauled, slicing back as near to the wind as she could get in the direction of the stranger.  The sun was bright, the sky blue, and the sea a pale sheet of water.  The horizon was lost in shimmering haze.  The Portuguese passengers had realized that something was afoot, and they had abandoned their promenade in the sun to line the rails. 

 “Deck there – there are two sail!”  Blake shouted down from the main truck.  “Both square rigs, about half a mile apart.” 

 The rest of the lieutenants had arrived on the quarterdeck by now.  “Our fleet?” Southwick said.  He rubbed his hands together, eagerly. 

 “Only two sail,” Kenton said. 

 “Deck there!” Blake shouted, breaking into Ramage’s thoughts.  “They have seen us!  They are coming about now, running down to meet us!” 

 “Masthead there!” Kenton shouted.  “Do you see any flags?”

 “No, sir!  The wind is carrying them straight toward us!”

 “Hullo,” Hill said, glancing at Loach quizzically.  “Did you hear that?” 

 “Hear what?” Ramage looked at them.  Ramage could hear nothing, but the young  midshipmen were staring at each other as well, clearly struck by a sound that their elders couldn’t hear. 

 “I didn’t hear anything,” Southwick said. 

 “I have Trafalgar ears,” Ramage admitted.  Not just Trafalgar, he thought glumly: too many cannons fired too close for too many years.  He could look forward to a profoundly deaf old age. 

 “Am I the only one who can hear that?” Hill asked.  “There!  Another one!”

  “Could be thunder?” Kenton guessed.

 “Thunder, on a day like this?”  Hill said.  The sun glared down under a blue sky. 

 Ramage held his breath, and listened.  He caught a thump, at the very limit of his hearing.  The sound was too crisp to be thunder. 

 “That’s gunfire!” Kenton declared.  “Gunfire, no question about it!”

 “Who’s firing?”  Ramage asked, aloud.  He cupped his hands and shouted aloft.  “Masthead there!  Do you see any gun smoke around those two ships?”

 “No, sir!  No smoke, sir!” 

 “Does the sound of guns travel this far?” Dawlish whispered. 

 “It can, Mr Dawlish,” Jackson said.  “If the air and the wind is just right.”

 “That’s coming from beyond our two friends over there, sir,” Ramage guessed.  “The wind will have pushed the sound toward us.”

 “They’re running away from whoever is firing,” Southwick agreed. 

 “Well, if there’s a party, we’ll just invite ourselves in,” Ramage said.  “Mr Kenton, we’ll clear for action.” 

 The drum rattled, and the _Dido_ was shaken out and re-made.  In twenty minutes, the Dido was cleared for action.  Her decks had been cleared and sanded, her guns had been loaded and run out, and the men were standing by, watching through their gun ports.  The Portuguese ladies had all been ushered below, but the Portuguese gentlemen were standing around the foremast, gripping their swords nervously.  The lieutenants had gone to their battle divisions, except Kenton, whose place was on the quarterdeck. 

 By now, the two strange ships were close by.  They were both brigs, sturdy ships, and the Portuguese flag flew in each one.  They were flying toward the Dido as fast as they could be steered.  Ramage levelled his glass, and saw figures on the nearest brig’s fo’c’sles. They were waving handkerchiefs and hats at the Dido as she ploughed toward them. 

 “They’re running away,” Kenton said.    

 “Running away from whoever is firing,” Southwick agreed. 

 “I know that ship, sir,” Jackson said. 

 “Which one?” Ramage asked. 

 “The one to starboard, sir.  _Dove,_ I think she’s called … They’re both from our fleet.”

 “ _Cormorão,_ ” a voice spoke up behind Ramage.  Dom Rodrigo was on the quarterdeck, having slipped up behind Ramage’s officers with his usual quiet manner.  “She is the _Cormorão._ ” 

 “They’re being chased by someone,” Kenton explained to Dom Rodrigo.  “And whoever it is, they’re in for a _lovely_ shock when _we_ show up.” 

 The Dido passed the two brigs at a cable’s distance and ploughed past without stopping.  Both brigs wore, and came back toward the wind again, following in the _Dido’_ s wake.  They both had to reduce sail, to keep behind the slow ship of the line. 

 “Should we make some sort of acknowledgement, sir?”  Kenton asked.  

 “No,” Ramage said, sourly.  “They were happy to run away a minute ago.  I’ll be damned if I’ll salute a couple of mules!” 

 The _Dido_ rolled on.  The sound of gunfire in the wind grew, until even Southwick could hear it. 

  _“_ Deck there!” Blake yelled back. 

 “Deck here!” 

 “Three sails, just hull down!  And smoke!” 

“Excellent,” Ramage said.  _“That’s_ our party.” 

 He was eager for a fight.  This whole cruise he had not fired a single shot in anger.  Ramage had never gone so long without spilling blood: _others’_ blood, by choice. 

 The masthead lookout yelled again.  “Deck there!  Four ships, not three!” 

 “What do you mean, four not three?” Southwick demanded through the speaking trumpet.  “Can’t you count?”

  _“_ There’s another one, dismasted!  That one looks like a ship of the line!  That one might be being towed!”

“Who is firing?”

 “The topsail schooner, sir!”

“ _What_ topsail schooner?”  Southwick bellowed, furiously.  

 “Sir,” Jackson spoke up, from his station by the binnacle, touching his brow.  “I can go aloft with a glass, and see if I recognise them.” 

 “No,” Ramage snapped.  “Your station is on the quarterdeck!  If you ask me again I’m going to start getting angry!” 

 He regretted the last words as soon as he’d said them.   There had been no reason to say them at all: a simple ‘no’ would have served.  If he made too much of an issue of refusing to allow Jackson aloft, Jackson would become suspicious, and sooner or later the secret of the Round Robin would come out.

Jackson had the best eyes in the ship, and an encyclopaedic memory for ships, and everyone knew that.  Sending Jackson aloft was the next best thing to going up and taking a look for himself. So, he would go up and take a look himself.  

“Mr Kenton, the deck is yours,” Ramage said.  “I’m going aloft!” 

 “Yes, sir,” Kenton said, surprised. 

 Ramage went forward, got up on the rail, and began pulling himself aloft up the mainmast shrouds.  The ratlines were rough and tarry in his fingers.  His shoulders seemed to have lost a lot of their pulling power, but his body remembered every step along the way.  He shifted from shrouds to futtock shrouds, and climbed into the maintop, to the astonishment of the Marines who were manning a swivel gun up there. 

 “Fancy meeting you here, Sergeant Harris!” Ramage said, cheerfully.

 “We should stop meetin’ like this, sir!” Harris agreed, saluting smartly, but grinning at the same time. 

 “You’re right,” Ramage said.  “Your wife is going to get _suspicherous!”_

 Harris’s wife was one of the women in the _Dido._   The Marines laughed, delighted at the joke that Ramage was not supposed to know about, and Ramage moved around them on the top, and climbed up the main topmast. 

He was out of breath by the time he reached the main royal yard.  Blake shifted outboard along the yardarm as Ramage got up to him.  Ramage wrapped an arm around the slender pole of the masthead, his legs securely around the yard. 

 He should come up here more often, he decided.  He was out of breath!  He had once come up here many times a day, but he had not done so for years.  He did not trust his voice not to sound hoarse with tiredness, so for a moment he did not speak to Blake.

 The wind up here was keener, flatter, pressing him sideways into the masthead.  The mast was tipped sharply to leeward, and as he looked down he saw the sea under him,.  The Dido seemed no bigger than a wooden clog, well to windward.  The ship’s wake scrolled out astern. 

 “The glass, please, Mr Blake,” he called. 

 Blake slid along the yard toward him, and held out the glass.  Ramage took it, made sure his grip with his legs was secure, and extended the glass toward the horizon. 

 It was tricky, keeping the long telescope aimed while the masthead swung through so many degrees, but long practice had taught him to track with the other eye.  

 There were four ships, he saw, in a cloud of brown smoke.  One of them was bigger than all the others.  The big one was tangled with a smaller ship, and the smaller one had no masts standing and was probably being towed by her.  

 A few hundred feet off, and in the process of tacking around, were a pair of topsail schooners.  They had long, flush-decked hulls – a long lean keel for maximum speed, and a sailing rig that combined the best manoueverability toward the wind with the maximum speed down it.  

 Privateers, he decided. 

 It was clear what was happening.  The privateers were faster and more agile than the Indiaman – but the Indiaman had big guns that could blow holes in the light-framed schooners.  The Indiaman captain could cut loose his crippled consort and fight a long-range battle with his big guns, but then the privateers would easily over-run the little one, with their heavily-armed crews, and this captain was clearly not having any of that. 

 The Indiaman captain was a stubborn man, Ramage thought, but he was going to lose this battle.  He could fight off one privateer, but not both.  

 As he watched, one of the privateers was making another run at the side of the Indiaman.  The Indiaman yawed to meet her approach.  Dots of fire sparkled down the big ship’s side, followed by a wall of smoke.  The privateer swung away again. 

 “Is that a ship of the line, sir?” Blake called. 

 “No,” Ramage called back.  “It’s an Indiaman – a big one.  The strakes are throwing you off.”  Indiamen had hulls that were big and beamy enough to pass as warships from a distance, and many of them were painted with white strakes like warships, in order to deter pirates who would steer clear of a warship’s big guns. 

 Ramage had seen enough.  He did not have explicit orders to defend the Portuguese merchantmen, but he was going to interpret them that way anyway.  There were hundred of women and children in the Portuguese evacuation fleet.  He remembered the poor _Tranquil,_ her passengers raped and butchered by the privateer Brune.  Not if he could help it, he thought.

 “Take the glass, Mr Blake.” Ramage handed over the telescope, and climbed down again.  He reached the deck. 

 “Mr Kenton!” he called.  “Privateers and a couple of merchantmen.” 

 “Aye aye, sir!” Kenton answered the order that Ramage had not spoken out loud.  Ever since the _Tranquil_ incident, Ramage’s crew had taken great pleasure in sinking privateers.  

 “What you can’t see from down here is that the Indiaman is towing a cripple,” Ramage said.  “She could get away if she cut the little one loose, but she hasn’t.” 

 “We’ll catch ‘em,” Southwick grinned.  He had fetched his great sword, and his hands were knotting around the hilt, eager for a fight.   

 “And we’ll have the royals set, if you please, and we’ll have the fire engines rigged.  I want every second of speed we can get out of her!” 

 “Aye aye, sir.” Kenton whirled away, his speaking trumpet coming up to his lips. 

 Ramage glanced over the ship’s bow as Kenton began to shout his orders.  The ships were hull up now, visible from the deck.  The sound of the Indiaman’s broadside was clearly audible.  No-one seemed to have yet noticed the British warship rolling relentlessly down on them.  The _Dido_ was dragging two years’ worth of West Indian weed and worms, but once she arrived her big guns would smash those little schooners into toothpicks. 

  “Mr Kenton, pass the word that we’ll double-shot the guns,” Ramage said.  “Stand by, starboard side.  I’ll be bearing away to larboard as soon as we’re in range.”

 The Indiaman yawed again, and her guns spat flame again. 

 That crew had to be exhausted, he thought.  They must have been running from one broadside to the other for over an hour.  Merchant crews were not exercised at their guns every week like the Navy men were.  The noise, the strain, the physical exertion… that was not what merchant seamen were paid to do.  Firing continuously for an hour was the Navy’s job. 

 Well, the Navy was on its way, Ramage thought, grimly.  The _wrong_ Navy, but a Navy nonetheless. 

 The _Dido_ was rolling relentlessly down on them, guns run out and ready, but at a slow walking pace.  She had been built to hand out punishment in battle, not to race – and besides, her hull was dragging two years’ worth of West Indian weeds, worms and barnacles.  Since he had taken command of her two years ago, she had crossed the Atlantic four times – nearly five times, now.   Ramage could almost feel the tons of weed dragging through the water under his feet.  So slow!  So huge, but so _slow!_   He wanted to throw his own shoulder under his ship’s transom and _push_ her to more speed…

 “Five minutes,” Southwick muttered.  “Just don’t see us for five more minutes…”

 “Don’t jinx us!” Ramage warned, and then swore. 

 “She’s seen us!” Hill shouted in despair. 

 One of the privateers had finally spotted the massive threat trundling down to meet her.  The great foresail was hauled across in confusion, and she immediately began to swing around.  Her bows turned away from the Indiaman, quick as a yacht.  

 “Damn, damn, damn!” Ramage shouted.  He heard a howl of angry Italian from the poop deck above his head.

 The privateer was turning, whirling like a spinning top rather than several hundred tons of wood.  Her captain knew his business – and her crew were quick at their sailhandling. 

 A moment later, the pyramid of sails on the further side of the dismasted brig changed too, as the second privateer turned away as well.  She’d seen what her sister was doing, and she’d seen why.  Both privateers turned into the wind, and a moment later they were sliding away from the Indiaman. 

 “We can still pursue, sir!” Southwick pleaded, almost desperately. 

 “It’s done,” Jackson said, flatly.  “We’ll never catch up with those two.” 

 “Mr Kenton,” Ramage said.  “When I give the word, stand by to bear away to larboard, and fire the starboard broadside.” 

 “Aye aye, sir.” 

 The _Dido_ rolled her way toward the Indiaman, and then past her.  Ramage could see men along her sides, leaping and cheering, and the sound of their voices stretched faintly across the distance.  They had fought like furies for over an hour, he thought; fought damned well, too.  But without signal flags, and without a band, there was no way to salute the sheer dogged stubbornness of that captain…

 No _appropriate_ way, at least. 

 “Mr Dawlish!” Ramage turned.  “Dip the colours, if you please!  You _do_ know how to do that, don’t you?” he added. 

 “Yessir!  I mean, aye aye, sir!”

 “Dipping the colours to a mule?” Southwick said, aghast. 

 “Dipping our colours to a damned hard fight!”  Ramage said.  “That crew’s tough!”

 The Dido’s great Union Jack was coming down, hauled hand-over-hand as quickly as the two signalmen could pull it.  They held the huge flag halfway down for a second, and then started pulling frantically in the other direction. 

 As the _Dido_ drew abreast of the Indiaman, he saw the battered brig coming into view under her stern.  The brig’s masts were broken stumps, and half of her bulwark had been smashed in.  Storm damage, he guessed.  The brig’s crew were also waving and cheering.  Their voices seemed weak and tinny, howling shrilly across the water. 

 The Indiaman’s flag slid down and then up again as the _Dido_ ploughed past her and left her behind. 

 “The cavalry’s arrived, lads,” Jackson muttered. 

 “The cavalry got here too late,” Ramage said, over his shoulder.  He took his telescope up, and took a look at the two privateers.   

 They were well beyond the brig now, and racing away.  They had been built for speed, their sleek hulls and huge sail area allowing them to sail much faster than the beamy battleship.  They were also pointing far, far closer into the wind than the square-rigged Dido could hope to. 

 There was no need to get the sextant out to measure their distance – already the privateers were visibly further away.  They were walking effortlessly away from their danger. 

 “Bastards,” Southwick growled, feeling the same frustration as Ramage.

 A lucky shot could still bring down one of those elegant masts, he told himself.  “Mr Kenton!  Hard a larboard!” 

 “Aye aye, sir!”  Kenton shouted, and the _Dido_ came about.  She fell away from the wind, turning her starboard side to the two fleeing privateers.  The helmsmen were rushing the ship’s double wheel around as hard as they could, their hard palms clapping on the spokes. 

 “Starboard guns!  Fire as you bear!” Ramage snapped.  His order was screamed down the hatchways. 

 The starboard broadside roared out, walking down the _Dido_ ’s walled hull.  The muzzle blasts stabbed out across the sea, flattening the surface with their concussions.  The sound was deafening, painful, a dizzying shock in its own right.  The whole ship shook with the recoil. 

 The smoke immediately blew in a clouded back around the ship, by the fact that they were firing into the wind.  The sunshine turned brown and murky for a moment.  Ramage lowered his hands from his ears, coughing.  Kenton and Southwick were both fanning their hats in front of their faces, as if it could help the cloud of smoke clear.  

 “Damn, damn, damn!” Kenton complained. 

 Beyond the smoke, the two privateers were still sailing, upright and unfazed.  They carried on, as if the _Dido’s_ broadside had been no more harmful than a rude gesture.  Their wakes tumbled impudently behind them. 

 Below, under the ringing of his ears, he could hear the lieutenants and midshipmen on the gundecks, ordering their crews to sponge out their guns.  But there was no point trying to pursue for another attack.  Even if the _Dido_ did chase them, she would have to tack back and forth to get into the wind. 

 “Secure the guns,” Ramage told Kenton.  “Let’s go back, and meet our new friends.” 

* * *

 

 The Portuguese Indiaman’s captain was nearly faint with fatigue, his face black with gunpowder as if he’d been crewing one of his guns himself.  He walked into the _Dido_ ’s great cabin, and almost fell in his eagerness to shake Ramage’s hand.  The captain’s hand was trembling.  Ramage knew the signs of a man who had borne for too long a fear that he was not trained to bear at all, and now that the need for bravery was past all his tremors were shaking their way out of his frame at once. 

 The feeling would pass, but until it did, Ramage would pretend he did not see it.  It was the best tribute he could pay to Captian Dos Santos’ courage. 

 Dom Rodrigo interpreted. 

 “Capitao Miguel dos Santos,” Dom Rodrigo said.  “His ship is the _Santa Catarina._   They’ve been alone since the storm, and then they came across the three brigs.  They took the dismasted one under tow last night – and then this morning the privateers found them.” 

 “Please tell him his ship defended herself with the greatest gallantry,” Ramage said.  “Tell him that, please.” 

 Dom Rodrigo translated, and Ramage had his hand shaken again. 

 “He says he has nine hundred souls in the _Santa Catarina_ ,” Dom Rodrigo said, “some of them of very high rank, and many ladies, and there are two hundred more in the other ship.” 

 “Why haven’t they repaired the brig – the one with no masts?”

 Dom Rodrigo asked, and was answered.  Dos Santos took off his hat and wiped his hand over his brow, smearing the powder marks, as he explained. 

 “He says they don’t have enough spare – what do you call them – poles?” Dom Rodrigo said.  “They left Lisbon in such a hurry…”

 “No spare spars?” Ramage was incredulous that anyone would try to cross the Atlantic with no spares spars.  “And they couldn’t fish the old one?” 

 “Fish?” Dom Rodrigo queried. 

 Ramage explained the concept, and the reply came back from Dos Santos that the brig’s masts and rigging had been swept off clean, and to save the ship they had had to chop them away.  There was nothing left to fish. 

 A few minutes later, the dismasted brig’s captain was ushered into the great cabin, and Ramage had his hand shaken and heard God being thanked for his presence all over again.  He had saved the _Gaviota,_ he had saved her and all the souls aboard her, and his presence was a sign of the mercy of God to whom they had all prayed.  The effusive gratitude was beginning to make Ramage feel uncomfortable.

 “We heard the sound of gunfire,” Ramage said, “and it was our duty to investigate.  We did nothing that any other British ship would have done, I assure you.” 

 “Whatever you say,” Dom Rodrigo pointed out to Ramage before he translated Ramage’s words, “remember that _your_ ship was here, and any other British ship is _not_.” 

 The sentry announced Lieutenant Hill.  “Sir,” Hill said,  “The other two brigs have arrived, and they’re hoisting out boats.” 

 “Thank you,” Ramage said.  “Show them down when they come aboard.”

 “Aye aye, sir.”

 A few minutes later, there were four Portuguese captains in the cabin, and Silkin was pouring drinks.  The Indiaman _Santa Catarina_ was the biggest ship, and her captain Dos Santos was the eldest.  The dismasted brig was the _Gaviota,_ commanded by Captain Miranda.  The other two brigs were the _Cormorão_ and the _Benguela._  

 Dom Rodrigo was translating in four directions at once, and doing a good enough job of it that Ramage suspected that he was more of a diplomat than a soldier.  Kenton was listening, his eyes watchful, but keeping quiet. 

 “We can spare a few spars to repair the _Gaviota,_ ” Ramage said to Dom Rodrigo.  He could probably justify the donation of a few spars to the Admiralty in the interest of getting their allies to Salvador.  “If the Portuguese can come up with sails to set on them?” 

 Dom Rodrigo translated, and there were nods around the table.  “He says the _Gaviota_ has her light-weather sails,” he said, on Captain Miranda’s behalf.  “When they lost their masts they lost only a few of the triangle sails at the front.” 

 “Excellent,” Ramage said.  “The sooner we get under way again, the better.  Please tell them that as of this moment, HMS _Dido_ will act as their escort, and we will stand by them all the way to Brazil.  Please tell them that.” 

 They  liked the sound of that.  Dos Santos of the _Santa Catarina_ made a little speech.  Dom Rodrigo translated it to Ramage, with a twinkle of mischief in his black eyes,

 “He’s very happy to have the escort of the famous Lord Ramage all the way to Rio de Janeiro.  Shall I tell them the bad news now?” 

 “If you please, Dom Rodrigo.” 

 Dom Rodrigo spoke, and Ramage heard the word ‘Salvador’ quite clearly in his speech.  The change in the Portuguese captains’ demeanours was so abrupt, it would have been comical in any other circumstances.  The captain of the _Santa Catarina_ looked perturbed, but the captains of the three brigs looked furious, and complained to Dom Rodrigo at length. 

 “They want to go to Rio de Janeiro,” Dom Rodrigo said, clearly paraphrasing. 

 Ramage would be damned if he would take a King’s ship where some foreigner told him to.  “We are going to Salvador,” Ramage said.  “If they don’t like it, they can complain to their Admiral.  After they reach Salvador.” 

 Captain Vilar of the _Cormorão_ was shaking his head, angrily. 

 “That’s not acceptable, he says,” Dom Rodrigo translated.  “His course is for Rio de Janeiro.  His passengers want to go to Rio de Janeiro.  He insists that you take them to Rio de Janeiro.” 

 Kenton snorted, and muttered under his breath, “Insists, does he?”

 Ramage felt his anger rise.  He _hated_ convoy duty – and here he was, volunteering for convoy duty!  He had not asked to have four unseaworthy mules to molly-coddle all the way to Brazil, and he was damned if he was going to entertain obduracy from them.

 “He insists on going to Rio de Janeiro?” Ramage felt his voice drop coldly.  “Very well.  If it is that important to him, he must go to Rio de Janeiro.” 

 He glanced across at the captain of the _Santa Catarina_.  Their eyes met, and he sensed suddenly that old Dos Santos was also tired of dealing with Captain Vilar.  Dos Santos nodded, very slightly, and no translation was needed.  Odd, how you could feel such sympathy with another man, when you spoke no words of his language!

 “It is clear to me that the crippled _Gaviota_ and the _Santa Catarina_ are the ships most in need of my protection,” Ramage said.  “His Majesty’s Ship Dido will be only too glad to escort these two brave ships.” 

 Dom Rodrigo translated, and Ramage saw the subtle insult light up Vilar’s face, but  he did not care.  Ramage found himself instinctively disliking the man.  He had run for the horizon as soon as the two privateers had hove into view, but now as soon as he was safe, _he_ was making the most noise.

 “Please tell the _other_ captains,” Ramage met Vilar’s gaze, “that of course a British captain has no legal right to order a foreign-flagged ship to go where he tells it to.  I have no recourse to enforce my commands.” 

 Dom Rodrigo translated.  The captains of the _Benguela_ and the _Gaviota_ didn’t look happy, but they looked as if they accepted that they were going wherever the _Dido_ went.  Miranda and Dos Santos exchanged nods. 

 “Conversely,” Ramage said, coldly, turning his gaze toward the _Cormorão_ ’s captain,  “if they do _not_ wish to accept my protection, under the terms of the British convoy system I can regard them as ‘rompers.’ As a romper, the _Cormorão_ is solely responsible for her own protection.  _We_ are going to Salvador.  Good luck, Captain Vilar.” 

 He was not at all sure of the legality of his threat – but he was willing to carry it out.  He stared at the _Cormorão_ ’s master, feeling his dislike for the man increase. 

 Vilar opened his mouth to complain again, but Captain Dos Santos broke in with a loud bark.  The older captain sat forward in his chair, his face going dark with anger, and his index finger stabbed as he spoke angrily to the _Cormorão_ ’s master. 

  “Ooh, threats are being made,” Dom Rodrigo murmured.  “Apparently as a romper the _Cormorão_ is not covered by insurance?  Insurance… lawyers… policies… penalty clauses… and I think Dos Santos is a very senior officer… ” 

 “I didn’t _ask_ to have to shepherd a pack of mules across the Atlantic,” Ramage said.  “I don’t like this any more than they do!” 

 Portuguese sounded like a good language for being angry in, Ramage thought; it had a certain throaty snarl to it.  Vilar recoiled under the verbal onslaught.  He did not look happy.  He folded his arms across his chest, and subsided with a sullen complaint.

 There was a knock at the door, and the sentry announced Lieutenant Hill again.  “Sir – I regret to inform you that the enemy has tacked about.  They’re both hove-to a few miles to windward.” 

 Dom Rodrigo translated _that_ without waiting for Ramage to ask him to.  Captain Dos Santos replied through his translation. 

 “He says it will be an honour to report to his passengers that the _Santa Catarina_ is under the protection of the famous Lord Ramage.” 

 “Glad to hear it,” the famous Lord Ramage said, briskly.  “Now, let’s get down to details.  Captain Miranda, how many spars will the _Gaviota_ need to be able to maintain steerage-way?” 

* * *

 

 It was agreed that the _Dido_ would not lend any men to the _Gaviota_ for the actual repairs.  Any benefit from the extra hands would be counted out by the extra hassle of language differences.  Southwick and Kenton, with Captain Miranda _,_ selected from the _Dido’_ s spare spars a few that the _Gaviota_ could use.  The little convoy drifted, hove-to, across the sea until the spars were safely across to the _Gaviota,_ and then Ramage gave the order to get under way.  The _Santa Catarina_ began making sail, taking up the strain on the tow rope slowly so as not to snap it.  The little convoy  began sailing south again. 

 It was painfully slow progress.  The _Santa Catarina_ was a big ship, but towing the dismasted _Gaviota_ meant she had to sail slowly and carefully.  The _Dido_ stayed well to windward of the convoy, between the four merchantmen and the lurking privateers.  Seven ships sailing south that afternoon, in company but not in convoy.  The day passed slowly, no-one leaving his place, as if they were all waiting. 

 The sun went down, leaving the sea cloaked in darkness, but for the lights still burning on the _Gaviota_ where the repairs continued into the night.  A nearly-full moon brightened in the evening sky, drawing a line of silver on the sea to the east.  Ramage lingered on the deck, looking over his new responsibilities, and then left the deck. 

 At three o’clock in the morning, the moon went down.  Silkin woke Ramage, and helped him to pull on his clothes again.  Ramage tied back his hair, scratched his stubbled jaw, rejected the bother of a pre-dawn shave, and went up on the deck. 

 “ _Cap’n’s on deck_ ,” he heard the whisper, as he felt his way along the rail by habit.  A few stars glinted through breaks in the clouds, but the ships were hidden in the darkness.  The horizon was dark all around.  There was no sign now of the four Portuguese, even though they had to be out there.  The only light anywhere on deck was the dim glow of the compass. 

 “Mr Martin.” 

 “Good morning, sir,” Martin said, cheerfully.  “Black as pitch, isn’t it, sir?”   

 Ramage restrained the urge to hit him.  He had just climbed out of a warm cot; Martin had been on watch for three hours already, and was wide awake.  The downdraught from the _Dido_ ’s spanker was blowing down inside Ramage’s coat as if he was naked.

 “Our friends have doused their lights, sir, as agreed,” Martin said. 

 “We’ll wait for seven bells, and then come about.” 

 “Aye aye, sir.”

 “Morning, captain,” Southwick’s voice carried out of the dark. 

 “Morning,” Ramage said.  “Have you got your night-glass?” 

 “Would you care for a look, sir?” 

 Ramage took it, and searched the trackless dark for any sign of a ship.  The night-glass could gather more light than a plain telescope because it had less lenses inside its barrel,  but because it had less lenses the image of whatever one saw was flipped upside-down.  He had intended to purchase himself one on his most recent leave, but with only a week ashore he had not had the time. 

 “There,” he said, at last.  A formless shape was moving alongside them, almost lost in the dark.  “Couldn’t tell you who that is, though.” 

 “That’s the _Santa Catarina_ , I believe,” Southwick guessed.  “They were there when the moon set.” 

 The ship’s bell rang out, far away on the fo’c’sle.  Somewhere over the starboard side another bell rang out, the sound a tiny chime at this distance.  Ting-ting, ting-ting, ting-ting, ting!

 “Very well, Mr Martin,” Ramage said.  “West-nor-west, if you please.” 

 “West-nor’-west, aye.  Ready about!” Martin called, and there was a rush of movement in the dark as the half-sleeping men went to the braces.  The helmsmen were turning the spokes: he could hear the sounds of their palms on the wood, and the rhythm of the ship’s noises changed as she creaked over onto her new course.  There was a great rush and clatter over their heads as the spanker moved invisibly over to the other side of the ship, and was trimmed by the afterguard in near silence. 

 Martin called his orders, briskly, adjusting the trim of the sails by experience and by feel rather than by sight, and then silence fell.  Ramage listened for the sounds of another ship looming up on a collision course, or for the sounds of alarm, but there was nothing.   The Dido gathered speed on her new course. 

 “And there we have it,” Southwick said, satisfied.  

 “Now we wait,” Ramage said. 

 Somewhere out there in the dark, all four of the Portuguese ships had wore around to their new course as well.  They were dog-legging together, in the hope of evading the two privateers in the dark.  The convoy did not need to run far, if they could only put the horizon between them.  With just a bit of luck, the two privateers would keep on tagging along toward the south-east. 

 Ramage turned his face into the wind.  Surreptitiously, he licked a fingertip, and touched his eyelids in the hope of waking himself up a little more.  He had been fast asleep and dreaming of Sarah, when Silkin had come trumpeting into his sleeping cabin.

 Southwick excused himself, and Ramage walked back and forth along the weather rail, his men keeping out of his way by tradition.  The watch changed at eight bells, and again the other bell out there went _ting-ting_ with the _Dido_.  Their consorts were still with them, even if no lights were showing.  Ramage had ordered double lookouts posted tonight, in case they ran too close to one of them in the dark.  Hill replaced Martin, as the starboard watch replaced the larboard watch, and he heard Martin quietly informing Hill that the captain was on deck. 

 There wasn’t really any need for Ramage to come on deck during what was really just a simple course-change, but he could not have stayed away.  If a simple course-change could shake the two lurking privateers off, then the course-change might be all he needed to safeguard his four charges. 

 Ramage yawned.  It might _really_ be that easy.  No matter the two schooners’ skills as  privateers, even they could not see over the curvature of the earth.  “Mr Hill,” he said.  “I’ll bid you a good evening.” 

 “Good evening, sir.” 

* * *

 

 Ramage was woken again, by a voice in his ear, and sharp light.  “Sir!  Sir!”  It was a terrified treble.

 “Mwuh?  Dawlish?”  He sat up.  The bright Tuscan sunlight had vanished, leaving him in the dark.  “Whussup?”

 The boy’s words jittled shrilly with his excitement, and the lanternlight shook the shadows around the cabin.  His words tumbled over themselves.  Ramage could only pick out the words ‘Hill’ and ‘Sannacatrina!’

 “Steady, lad!  Hold that light still!”  Ramage pulled on his breeches again, and pulled his coat on over his nightshirt.  The deck swayed as he buckled on his shoes.  The hammering and banging of the sails told him that they were tacking, as the officer on the deck turned them around  on his own initiative.

 A muffled thump reached his ears.  A gun, firing?  He reached the quarterdeck and went straight to the rail.  Hill was springing in his direction, one hand to his hat, the other already pointing out toward the battle, but there was no need to explain why he had turned the ship.

 “Beat to quarters!” Ramage shouted without taking his eyes from the scene. 

 There was no need to wait for his eyes to adjust.  There was plenty of light around the distant scene.  Three miles away on the bow, a rocket stabbed up into the night like a sharp white needle, illuminating the _Santa Catarina_ and the _Gaviota_ like a stage set.  The _Santa Catarina_ was lit up in a haze of ghostly blue: she was burning portfires.    Flame crackled along her side, as she fired a few of her guns.  Astern of her, still under tow, the hulk of the _Gaviota_ was a dark lump in the sea. 

 The Dido’s drum began to rattle out, but his men were rushing to quarters without even waiting for the word of command.  He saw Orsini rush past him in his nightshirt on his way to his carronades.  It took fifteen minutes to clear for action when the men were all awake and expecting it; it might take longer for the men to throw themselves out of their hammocks, clear their sleepy eyes, and stumble to their guns. 

 Another rocket lanced up from the _Gaviota_ , bright as a needle, and for the first time Ramage could see what the Santa Catarina was shooting at.  The privateer’s sails were silhouetted against the sparkling sea.  She was this side of the _Santa Catarina_.  As the rocket died, the darkness concealed her again. 

 Loach was standing on the rail, holding onto the shrouds with one hand.  “There she is!”  Loach bellowed, pointing the other. 

 “Get off the rail!”  Ramage shouted at him.  “The fo’c’sle, if you please!  Clear away the bow chasers!  But hold your fire until I give the word!” 

 “Aye aye, sir!” Loach launched himself off the rail with the agility of a topman, and sprinted away across the gangway. 

 The _Dido_ was lighting herself up like the Vauxhall Gardens, as the men lit lanterns to see what they were doing.  He could see the fo’c’sle now, and the sails drawing steadily.  Below him on the upper gundeck, he could see the gun crews casting off the lashings that held their guns immobile.  The first gun captains were fitting their flintlocks, and the powder cartridges were arriving, ready to load the guns. 

 Two miles away, the only light was the portfire of the _Santa Catarina_ , a dim blue glow that illuminated only the dark outline of her hull, her white strakes and the delicate curve of her mainsails: the mere hint of a ship.  Some of her portfires were dying out, but the signal lights had done their job.  Her guns stabbed at the dark again, bright jets of flame licking into a cloud of smoke.  Her opponent had disappeared into the darkness again. 

 Kenton arrived on the quarterdeck, relieving Hill, who dashed off to command his division of guns.  “Sir! What’s going on?”

 “The _Santa Catarina’s_ straggled,” Ramage said, shortly, “and the devils have caught her.”

 “How, for pity’s sake?” Kenton said, aghast.  “She was just ahead of us as the moon went down!”

 “I don’t know.”

 The men whose stations in action were on the quarterdeck were all here now.  Some of them were naked, but all of them were wide awake, and the quarterdeck gun crews were already standing by their guns and waiting for orders.  Southwick arrived on the quarterdeck out of breath.  He was buckling on his giant two-handed sword, and grinning with delight at the prospect of a night action.  

 Where was Ramage’s sword?  For that matter, where the hell was his hat?  He was wearing his coat over his nightshirt, which was hanging around him below his coat like a petticoat.  His hair was hanging wild around his face.  He must look comical, but he could hardly go below to get dressed now – the men clearing for action would be throwing his furniture down into the hold in a jumble.  “Mr Pattinson – go below and find my sword.” 

 Pattinson jetted off like a minnow, even as another midshipman arrived to report to Kenton that the _Dido_ was cleared for action. 

 “They’re firing rockets to get our attention,” Southwick said. 

 “They’ve got it.” 

 “Where are the other two brigs?” Kenton asked. 

 “They had bloody better be where they’re supposed to be,” Southwick growled.  “There are _two_ privateers around.” 

 Ramage turned to look astern.  A light over the quarter showed where at least one of the brigs was keeping up with the _Dido._   They had agreed yesterday that they would doggedly stick to the ship of the line, aware that without the liner’s protection they would be easy prey. 

 “Sir,” another messenger arrived.  “Mr Loach’s compliments, and he’s ready to open fire.”   

 “Tell him to hold his fire,” Ramage said, and so that his second in command might know what he was doing, he explained to Kenton.  “We’re going to get as close as we can, and then join in with the long nines.” 

 The long bow-chasers were not different type of gun from the short-barrelled guns of the Dido’s broadside, but they had a much longer barrel; the bowchasers were designed to carry a shot with more accuracy, in the hope of striking a blow at a fleeing enemy. 

 The privateer was momentarily silhouetted against the dim glow of the Santa Catarina’s portfires.  They were two miles away now, an island of light in the darkness.  From the _Dido,_ the scene of the battle looked like a window into someone else’s world, glimpsed through a telescope.  The portfire glowed in a globe against the velvety darkness all around, tying the privateer and the two Portuguese together in their own private tableau. 

 The _Dido_ was sliding through the water, with the quartermaster and helmsmen nursing the helm to coax more speed from her.  Kenton called a sail order, in the hope of trimming her more tightly to the wind.  The telltales were stiff as whips, the sails drawing as well as they possibly could. They were still sailing in the dark – violence not yet bared – but they were coming to join the tableau as fast at they could. 

  “Cavalry’s coming, lads,” Jackson’s murmur reached Ramage’s ears.  Ramage looked around and met Jackson’s eyes.  Jackson nodded, wordlessly.  When it came to fighting they would support each other, as always. 

 The _Gaviota_ fired another rocket.  The light gleam off another set of sails, well astern of the dismasted brig.

 “There’s the other one!” Kenton said, pointing. “Just astern of the _Gaviota.”_

“I see her.”

 They were pushing the _Dido_ as fast as she could go, and the distance was closing.  Still out of range, even of the bow chasers, but now they could see clearly. 

 The closer of the privateers swung around the _Santa Catarina_ , her sails briefly silhouetted like a magic lantern show against the _Santa Catarina’s_ blue glowing sails.  She was going to close with the _Santa Catarina’s_ bow, he saw; she was taking the risk of being rammed in the interest of throwing her crew over the Indiaman’s bulkheads in a single rush.  The _Dido_ was hidden in the dark, but she was still around somewhere, and the privateer was gambling on a rapid victory before she caught up with them.   

 Ramage opened the binnacle drawer for his telescope, and levelled it on the tableau.  He could see the privateer’s crew lining the schooner’s bulkheads.  The _Santa Catarina_ fired her forward guns, desperately trying to stave off the attack with her  eight-pounders, and she swung as her helmsman steered her away from the privateer.  

 Another rocket lashed up, its brilliance diminished through the mirrors of the telescope.  The privateer swung close.  The two hulls collided.  The sails of both ships shook with the crash.  Men were surging in the dark.  They were pouring over the _Santa Catarina’s_ bulwarks.  He could almost smell the blood, hear the screams of rage.  The _Santa Catarina_ was going to be stormed by sheer numbers. 

 No time for a sneak attack!  Ramage spun on his heel.  “Mr Loach!  Open fire!” 

 There was a sharp crack, and a jet of light and fire from the _Dido’_ s fo’c’sle.  Loach had opened fire with the long bow-chaser.  A moment later, the other one fired, and the smoke eddied back on the quarterdeck, stinging the eyes, and filling the nose with the sharp smell of war. 

 The _Dido_ was snarling with rage from a distance, and the two jackals seemed to hear her at the same time.  The further of the two privateers began to turn about, giving up the attack.  The second privateer was still tightly attached to the _Santa Catarina_ , half of her crew struggling on the Indiaman’s decks, but as Ramage looked again with his glass, he saw they were streaming back to their own ship. 

 “Bugger,” Southwick grunted, under his breath.

 The bow-chasers fired again, and spat more smoke. 

 The _Gaviota_ sent up another rocket, and this time the light flickered a shadow over the rigging of the _Dido._   They were close enough to be visible now, but not close enough to open fire. 

 And the Dido’s massive broadside was useless when the enemy was pinned so close to the side of a friend.  He could not fire into the privateer without firing clean through her light frame and hitting the _Santa Catarina_.

 “Stand by boarding parties,” Ramage told Kenton.  If the privateer could not extricate herself from the _Santa Catarina_ , he would lay the _Dido_ alongside her, sandwich her between the two big ships and board her from both. 

 But it was too late, he saw, and he reached out and grasped Kenton’s shoulder before he could shout the order.  “Belay that order – they’re going!”

 The privateer was swinging away from the _Santa Catarina_.  She must have hacked away her grappling hooks – abandoned any of her crew still trapped in the Indiaman.  Her foresail was flapping and flogging, blue-lit from the portfires, as the wind struggled to feel into the folds of canvas. 

 “Oh, not _again_ ,” Southwick grumbled, irritated; the voice of a man who has arrived at a cross-road to see the Post Chaise disappearing over the horizon.

 The schooner was sliding away from the _Santa Catarina_ , and the dark was already swallowing her up.  Loach fired the bow chasers again.

 “The _Gaviota_ ’s not under tow!” Kenton said, pointing.  “They must have cut the line!”

 Sure enough, the dismasted brig was not where she had been.  Her sails were lit up by another rocket, and she was a cable or more away from where she should be.  The rocket lit up the fleeing privateer; the other one was already gone, dived back into the dark. 

 “Steer for the _Gaviota_ ,” Ramage ordered, and the quartermaster acknowledged. 

 “I’m surprised they didn’t try to cut out the _Gaviota,_ ” Kenton said. 

 “And go _where_ with her?” Southwick scoffed.  “The _Gaviota’_ s not going anywhere the _Santa Catarina_ isn’t taking her.  They can see that.” 

 The privateer was speeding away, and Ramage cursed the _Dido_ ’s weedy bottom.

 The privateer was already disappearing into the dark, following her sister-ship.  Ramage wondered how they would find each other again, out there, but realized they didn’t have to.  As long as they knew a pair of plump prizes were being escorted by a single, slow, ship of the line, they were not going anywhere.  They were diving back into the dark, like a pair of sharks submerging into the depths, but they would be back.

 The _Santa Catarina’s_ crew were cheering again, as if they had not done something sublimely stupid.  The other two Portuguese merchantmen were still astern of the _Dido_ , where they were supposed to be. 

 Ramage realized that his fists were clenched with anger.  Damned merchant captains!  They knew that they had their steadiest winds at night in these latitudes, they knew they were supposed to stay together, they knew they were in danger if they fell back – and yet they _insisted_ on taking in reefs as soon as it was dark, slowing their speed to a dawdle!  He had spent too many convoy crossings chasing up idiots who didn’t care that the whole convoy would have to heave to and wait for them to catch up in the morning!  And that idiot knew perfectly well that there were a pair of privateers watching him, just licking their lips and waiting for him to do exactly what he had done! 

 Ramage ordered the Dido brought within hail of the Santa Catarina, and sent for Dom Rodrigo. 

  _“Senhor!_ I must congratulate you on…”

 “Save it,” Ramage said,  pressing the speaking trumpet into Dom Rodrigo’s hands.  “Tell me what he’s saying!” 

 Dom Rodrido took the trumpet, and blared across the water toward the _Santa Catarina._ Captain Dos Santos was standing on his quarterdeck, and he shouted back a long story that involved a lot of waving his hands toward the distant, drifting _Gaviota._  

 “He says you came in the nick of time!  He has lost fourteen men, but the others are saved.”

 “Fourteen!” Ramage snapped.  Ramage gripped Dom Rodrigo’s shoulder, and hissed, his voice flat with anger.   “He nearly lost his ship – both ships!  Ask him why he was three miles – _three miles!_ – away from where he was supposed to be!” 

 “He says they lost the rope,” Dom Rodrigo said. 

 “The rope?”

 “The rope that was pulling the _Gaviota._   It broke.  They had to stop, and send another rope.” 

 Ramage hissed, angrily.  “Why didn’t they just call the _Dido?_   Why didn’t they fire a gun, or send up a rocket, or…”

 “You ordered him not to carry any lights!” Dom Rodrigo interrupted him.  “He was doing what you told him to do! He tried to collect the rope in the dark without alerting the enemy.  If he’d succeeded, you would never have noticed.”

 “Instead, he failed, and he called in our friends!” 

 “He says he didn’t have to,” Dom Rodrigo said.  “The enemy was so close behind us, they almost ran their pointy front bit into his back windows in the dark!”

 Ramage let go of Dom Rodrigo’s shoulder.  “He says the dog-leg failed?”

 “So he says.  Either they saw us do it, or they guessed we would.”   

 “Damn!” Ramage said. 

 “Do not blame Captain Dos Santos,” Dom Rodrigo said.  “I am not going to shout it for you, in front of the ears of his whole crew!” 

 Ramage was being lectured on his own quarterdeck.  “You’re a terrible translator,” he grumbled.  

 “He knows perfectly well he nearly lost his ship!  Pride, captain!  Don’t tell me you do not understand being made to look incompetent in the eyes of a foreign navy?  He has lost fourteen crewmen – now is _not_ the time to put salt in his cuts!”   

 Ramage rubbed his forehead.  Dos Santos was standing on the quarterdeck, waiting for his decision.  The _Santa Catarina’s_ crew were working already, throwing bits of wood and broken rigging over the side.  The _Santa Catarina’s_ bow was damaged, and there were dark patches on the white strakes that ran around her hull. 

“Very well.” 

 “What do you want him to do?”  Dom Rodrigo asked. 

 “Tell him to pick up the tow again, and to keep those portfires burning until sunrise.  Tell him we’ll try again to shake off our friends tomorrow.”

 Dom Rodrigo put the speaking trumpet back to his mouth, and shouted Ramage’s words toward the _Santa Catarina_.  Ramage turned back, and looked at his first lieutenant.  “Mr Kenton!  We’ll bear away, and pass within hail of the other two ships.  We’ll sail in company for the rest of the night.”  

 “Aye aye, sir.” 

 


	14. Night action

Ramage had the men stay at their stations until sunrise – another hour – in case the privateers made another lunge at the little convoy.  The sun rose above the sea, slowly lifting around the curve of the horizon.  The _Santa Catarina_ was once again towing the _Gaviota,_ the line rising like a bowstring from the water whenever a stray eddy brought the brig’s weight on it.  The _Cormorao_ and the _Benguela_ were to windward, one after the other as if he’d given them a convoy plan. 

The traditional call of ‘see a grey horse at a mile’ went up, and the lookouts went aloft.  “Deck there!”  the shout came back from the sky, as soon as the first lookout reached the masthead. 

“Deck here!” 

“Two sails, hull-down, bearing nor-nor-west!  It’s our friends from last night, sir!” 

Kenton sighed.  “Here we go again.”

“We knew they would be there,” Ramage said to Kenton.  “Stand the hands down from quarters, and we’ll go to breakfast.  They won’t try anything in daylight.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Kenton said.   

Bowen approached Ramage on the quarterdeck, before he went down to his cabin.  Bowen put his hand to his hat.  “Sir – I regret to report that I have two men in the sick bay.” 

Ramage looked at him in astonishment.  The _Dido_ had fired only six times, and had not received a single shot in reply.  “Who?”

“Jansen has a crushed finger, and Prescott fell down a ladder and dislocated his hip.”

“From clearing for action in the dark?” Ramage said.  “That’s not good enough.  Guess what we’re going to be drilling very soon?” 

Bowen’s eyes ranged over the quarterdeck rail, to where the Portuguese sailed.  “With your permission, sir, may I go across to the _Santa Catarina_ and help her surgeon with their wounded?” 

“Yes – and take Orsini and Dom Rodrigo with you. They can translate for you if their surgeon has no Latin.”   

Ramage went down to his cabin.  He had been surprised to realize, after the heat of anticipation had faded, that he was still only half-dressed.  His nightshirt had been hanging around his legs like a petticoat all through the action, and if any of his men hadn’t already guessed that their captain had a hairy chest, they knew now.  Silkin laid out a fresh set of clothes without comment, and Ramage dressed, shaved, and ate his breakfast. 

He was sitting at his desk, sharpening a new quill, and wondering how he was going to describe the night’s action in his log.  He always wrote action reports as soon as he possibly could.  His memory was terrible, and he knew that if he took too long to write down the events of an action, it would all blur together in his mind.

There was a knock at the door, and the sentry announced Southwick.  Ramage shouted for him to come in, and Southwick opened the door. 

“Evening, sir,” Southwick greeted.  “One of our friends is still holding on, nor’-nor’-west, but the other has dropped over the horizon.” 

“Giving up?” Ramage put away his pen knife.

“We can hope, sir,” Southwick said.  “This poor tub doesn’t have a hope of catching them on her own.”

“She’s not a tub!” Ramage teased.  “She’s just growing a few barnacles.” 

Southwick sniffed.  “Not often I like to praise anything the Frogs do, sir,” he said, “but there _are_ those who say they build faster ships than we do, any day of the week.” 

“ _We_ build them tougher,” Ramage said.  “And in a ship of the line, toughness is what counts.”  He reached out, and clapped a hand affectionately on one of the great knees that supported the poop deck guns above his head. 

* * *

 

Through the day, the lone schooner remained a pale tooth of sail on the horizon.  She neither came hull-up, nor fell further back, until exactly noon.  Almost as if she’d heard Southwick announce the time to Ramage, the privateer put on extra sail.  She was trying to catch up with the convoy again. 

Ramage waited to make sure of what the privateer was doing.  When it was clear that the privateer was coming on, perhaps in the hope of snapping up the straggling _Cormorao,_ he decided that her presence could not be tolerated.  He tacked the _Dido,_ and went beating back up to the north-north-west to drive the privateer away.  The _Dido_ went to general quarters, ready in case by some miracle the privateer fell within their grasp. 

The privateer seemed to regard the _Dido_ with disdain.  She held her course steadily, ignoring the oncoming ship of the line right up until when the _Dido_ was almost within range.  She tacked at the last moment.

“There she goes!” Kenton said, looking through his telescope. 

“Blast,” Loach said.  “She’s had enough.”

Ramage, aft on the quarterdeck, looked at the privateer through his telescope as the schooner tacked.  The privateer turned her stern toward the Dido, and he saw that at least some shots had hit home.  There were holes along the privateer’s stern, black punctures where solid shot had battered in the fragile structure of the stern windows. 

“Looks like we hit her,” Kenton said, happily. 

“ _Someone_ hit her,” Ramage corrected. 

The Dido’s bow-chasers fired.  Pillars of water went up in the schooner’s wake, but the privateer was stepping away to windward.  She was going to do exactly what she had done yesterday – slide away closer to the wind than the _Dido_ could follow.  The _Dido_ could go up to windward as well – eventually, by zigzagging tediously in short tacks.  The fore-and-aft sails, ‘sucking’ the ship to windward, may have been much slower than square sails in a race downwind, but they were much handier to sail close to the wind. 

“We’ll see them off to a good distance,” Ramage said.  “And we’ll make another lunge at them at nightfall.  If they do what they did last night, they’ll try to sneak up again in the dark.” 

The _Dido_ pursued the privateer doggedly for an hour.  The big ship tacked twice, and then, as if giving up, Ramage ordered her turned about, and sailed after his convoy. 

“Deck there!” the lookout hailed. 

“Deck here!” Southwick cupped his hands to his mouth. 

“Our convoy is beating up to join us!” 

Ramage looked at Kenton, who frowned, puzzled.  “Why, for heaven’s sake?” Kenton asked. 

Ramage had a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knew why.  “Mr Kenton, let go the topgallants, and we’ll have a reef out of the mainsails.”

Kenton yelled the orders, and the _Dido_ surged through the water, the wind nearly at her back and bellying out the sails.  The convoy were a quartet of little pyramids in the distance.  He took out his telescope. 

Yes, they had all luffed up sharply, and were beating upwind to meet the ship of the line.  Already, the _Cormorao_ and the _Benguela_ were ahead of the slower _Santa Catarina._   He’d specifically told them to keep sailing south, to keep the _Dido_ between them and the privateer.  There could only be one logical reason why they were now sailing north to his protection again…

“Damn!” Ramage said, just as the lookout bawled again. 

“Sail ho!  Fine on the starboard bow – hull down!”

“It can’t be,” Kenton said.  “Can it?”

“Get the private signal ready, just in case it’s one of ours,” Ramage ordered, but he already knew it would not be.  Damn, damn, damn!  

The _Dido_ had the wind on her quarter – her favourite point of sailing – but it would be something of a race.  The bowsprit swung ponderously up and down in a sort of slow nod, as if the ship was reluctantly agreeing with her captain that perhaps she _could_ try to hurry along just a little bit faster under the circumstances. 

They were in time, after all.  The _Dido_ lumbered past the racing _Cormorao_ and _Benguela,_ just as the _Santa Catarina_ yawed around and fired a full broadside of her nine-pounders on the other privateer that had come up from the south to meet them.   

The water was punctuated by pillars of water all around the privateer.  Nothing changed on the schooner’s rigging, and no cloud of splinters erupted from the schooner’s hull.  The privateer bore away long before the _Dido_ could reach her, and her great foresail bellied out like a racing yacht.  She began to accelerate away.  She was going to walk away from the ship of the line again.

The privateer to the north had also turned as soon as she saw that the _Dido_ was turning back. 

The two topsail schooners wanted a chance at a Portuguese Indiaman, and they were  not intimidated by the _Dido._   Particularly since they could see perfectly well that there were two of them, but only one warship.  The convoy now had a privateer on either side, one to leeward, one to windward, like a pair of bookends.   The _Dido_ could not pursue one, without the other slipping up and attacking the convoy. 

“I’ve been outfoxed!” Ramage said, furious.  

“You couldn’t have guessed,” Southwick said. 

“I should have guessed!” Ramage said, and stared his anger at the leeward privateer.  “It’s my job to guess!  We didn’t do any zig-zagging all day, and they noticed!  I’ve been bloody well outfoxed!” 

“This bloke is good,” Loach observed. 

“He’s too good,” Ramage grumbled. 

* * *

 

 

All afternoon, the convoy steered south.  The _Dido_ stayed in her station, just to windward of the four merchantmen, where she could run down close to them in minutes. 

The privateers too held their station, as if their captains were in mental communication with each other.  The one shadowed the convoy to windward; the other was a sail to leeward.  The _Dido_ could not drive away one, without abandoning the convoy to the other.  Her huge guns – more artillery than a whole Army division – were completely useless at this range. 

At least the repairs on the _Gaviota_ were carrying on.  Ramage had no doubt that his own Didos would be able to do the work in a day – but the Portuguese seamen seemed to be taking their time about it.  It didn’t help either that they had to rig everything from scratch – shrouds, stays, blocks, braces.  They had brought nothing with them from Lisbon; all had to be made new from the donations of the _Dido._

Bowen returned to the _Dido_ in the afternoon, and the lieutenant on the deck sent him immediately down to the great cabin, as Ramage had instructed.  The sentry announced him, and Bowen walked in.  He looked tired. 

Ramage directed him to the settee, immediately, and sent Silkin to fetch coffee.  Bowen looked tired, and he sat down heavily. 

“Thank you, Silkin,” Bowen said.  “I’ve been operating since I left.” 

“Yes, I can tell,” Ramage said.  The surgeon’s eyes were red, and his hair was lanky with sweat.  The front of Bowen’s waistcoat and breeches was mottled with dried blood.  Ramage knew that surgeons cherished the smears of blood as a badge of their professionalism, but the smell repelled him.  “What’s the state of the _Santa Catarina?”_ he asked, trying not to lean backwards away from Bowen.  

“They had fourteen men killed outright last night, and another thirty wounded,” Bowen said.  He took of his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes.  “The surgeon is doing his best, but his techniques are _wildly_ out of date – and the _dirt_ in that ship! My _word_ , the dirt!  – and he’s never had so many patients at once so he’s completely overwhelmed.” 

“Does he want for anything?”

Bowen shook his head.  “Just a steadier hand, and a more relevant textbook.  And they’ve taken prisoners.” 

“I’d like to talk to them,” Ramage said, immediately. 

“You’ll have to join the end of the line, I’m afraid,” Bowen said.  “Dom Rodrigo got stuck into them as soon as he heard about them.  But we know the names of the privateers.  The one that went aboard the _Santa Catarina_ last night is the _Louise,_ Captain le Clerk, of St-Malo.  The other is the _Diligente,_ Captain Kerguelen.”

“Kerguelen?” Ramage exclaimed.  “ _Our_ Kerguelen?” 

“His brother, Robert,” Bowen said. 

“No wonder he’s good!”  

Ramage knew Jean and Robert Kerguelen, both as men and as honourable enemies.  He had come to like Jean, when he had been Jean’s prisoner in the terrible _Lady Arabella_ in Lisbon.  War made strange bed-fellows,  and none were stranger than the fact that Ramage had found more to like in a St Malo  privateer than in any French naval officer he’d yet faced.  At least, he thought, if he did lose one of the merchantmen he knew that the Portuguese civilians would be unharmed.  Kerguelen was not another Brune. 

 “Is ... _our_ Kerguelen still at sea?”  Bowen asked. 

“I don’t know.  I visited him during the Armistice, on my honeymoon.”  Ramage rubbed his chin, thoughtfully.  “Bonaparte offered some of the best of the privateers a naval command.  I heard that Surcouf turned it down, but Jean – I mean, _Captain_ Kerguelen – said that he and his brother were thinking about taking it up."  

“Does this change anything?” 

“No,” Ramage said.  “All’s fair in love and war.  Kerguelen is the most English Frenchman I’ve ever met.  His mother was English.”

“He won’t quit, sir,” Bowen said, sombrely.  “Not Kerguelen.  Not for an Indiaman – and not if he knows half of the gold in Lisbon is being carried in the evacuation fleet.”

“They can sit out there all the way to Brazil.  They’re not getting any of my convoy, and that’s final.” 

He had been outfoxed twice; he would not be caught out again. 

* * *

 

“They’re brave, at least,” Jackson grumbled.  He took off his hat with one hand, and ran the other hand over his head; a habit he had developed when he was thinking. 

“You should stop doin’ that,” Stafford told him.  “You’ve _already_ rubbed off most of yer ‘air; there’s no need to give it a polish as well.” 

Jackson put his hat back on his head, and showed Stafford what he thought of that advice with one finger. 

The captain had ordered the ship stood down from general quarters, as they could hardly stand by their guns all the way to South America, and it looked as if the two privateers were going nowhere for now.  Jackson had gone forward to chat to Stafford and Rossi. 

“They’re not brave, they’re just greedy,” Rossi said.  “Investors expect profits, _si?”_   He  gripped the foremast shrouds in one hand, and stared past the sweep of the Dido’s beakhead and the nest of rigging around the bowsprit.  The leeward privateer sailed in the lead of the convoy, as if she was showing them the way to Brazil. 

“I wonder where on earth they were going?”  Gilbert wondered. 

“Maybe it’s Robert Surcouf himself?”  Rossi guessed, smiling at the idea of catching France’s most famous privateer captain. 

“You just want to win yourself that five million franc reward, _mon ami!”_   Gilbert teased. 

“If anyone is going to catch the King of the Corsairs, it is our Mr Ramage,” Rossi  said.  His faith in Ramage was something near to religious. 

“There isn’t a reward,” Jackson said.  “Because it’s not Surcouf.  It’s Robert Kerguelen.”

“That man we met in Lisbon?” Rossi asked, surprised. 

“No, this is his brother.”

“It doesn’t matter if there’s a reward,” Stafford said gloomily, “Cause we can’t catch ‘em anyway.  The _Dido_ couldn’t catch ants in a picnic basket!  And we can’t be ‘aving these two clowns followin’ us all the way to Brazil!  Just one mistake from us, and one of our merchantmen will be heading for St Malo.”

“They’ll need to take the merchantmen over the horizon, somehow,” Jackson said, “Otherwise we’ll just catch up and take them.” 

“Yus, but ‘ow are we going to _stop_ ‘em, if the Portuguese are always wanderin’ off at night?  Bet you a tot we ‘ave ter go and do the ‘ole performance all over again tonight!  And ‘ow many more mules are out here, anyway?  Too many, I’ll wager!  We’re going to end up trying to escort a convoy wiv only one liner!”  He shook his head, overwhelmed, as if it was his burden to bear alone.

“Mr Ramage will think of something,” Rossi said, confidently.  

“Just our bloody luck to run into a pair of privateers all the way out ‘ere!” Stafford complained.  “Where the ‘ell were this pair headin’ to, anyway?  We’re miles out of the sea-lanes, innit?”  His aggrieved tone made it sound as they had sailed all the way out here just to spite William Stafford. 

“I don’t think it matters where they were going,” Jackson said.  “One big fat  Indiaman will make their whole cruise worthwhile, and they know it.  And there’s a lot of specie in those ships.”

“Specie?” Stafford asked.  “What – like, _gold?”_

“The rich Lisbon toffs cleaned out all their money when they came along on this little jaunt,” Jackson explained.  “Any one of those four ships carries enough gold to make every man in those privateers rich.” 

“Gold!” Stafford groaned.  “And it’s our job to pertect it all!”

“ _Sta tranquille_ , Stafford!” Rossi teased him.  “No-one is going to make you pay for  it!”

The others laughed, but Stafford still looked gloomy.  “I should’ve stayed a burglar.  The burglar just has to get lucky once.  But the nightwatchman ‘as to stay lucky _every_ night!”  

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Jackson said.   

“What’ll the capting do, Jacko?”  Stafford asked. 

 “I don’t know,” Jackson admitted.   “It’s going to a long, tedious cruise to Salvador, that’s all.  I can’t think of any way to suddenly _give_ old _Dido_ an extra five knots, and that’s the only way we’ll catch them.” 

“Surprise, that’s the thing!” Rossi said.  “Is always surprise, with the captain.  Is not only very aggressive, but very surprising.”

“Like Nelson,” Stafford agreed. 

“How he is going to surprise these two?” Gilbert said.  “How do you surprise something that can run away so fast?” 

“Ah,  but you don’t hunt by _running,”_ Jackson said, surprised by Gilbert’s ignorance.  “You hunt by _paying attention_.”  And by carrying a good German long rifle, of course, but it didn’t do to mention those lovely weapons to Englishmen. 

“I don’t fink payin’ attention will bring these jokers over to us any time soon.  Every time we just look at them a bit ‘ard-like, they turn tail and run away!  ‘Ow are we going to catch ‘em?”

 “Look, there he is,” Gilbert said, nodding his head. 

They all looked.  The captain was on the poop deck, and as they watched, he extended his telescope out and had a long look at the distant privateer to windward.  Then he turned on his heel, and had a long look at the other privateer. 

“Would not want to be in his boots,” Louis said. 

“The captain will know what to do,” Rossi said, stoutly.  “He always does!  _Sta tranquille,_ Stafford!” 

* * *

 

Ramage was at that very moment cursing the fact that he did _not_ know what to do.  He stared at the two privateers, but his mind was blank.  He could think of nothing. 

Two escorting warships could sandwich the convoy between them; one could stay on station, while the other went away to pursue any threats.  It was rare for one warship to escort a convoy; even rarer for that single escort to be a ship of the line instead of a nippy frigate.  Trying to defend a convoy with a battleship was like trying to swat a fly with a window shutter – the window shutter could do horrible damage, _if_ it landed, but it was too big, and too slow, and the flies would zip out of the way and laugh at it.

Ramage put his analogy out of his head before he embroidered it past the point of incoherence.  He levelled his telescope on the _Santa Catarina_ instead. 

She was a typical fat-hulled Indiaman.  Unlike Guineamen, which could be of any size or rig as long as they were _fast_ , Indiamen looked pretty much the same.  The British East India Company, the Dutch Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie, the French Compagnie des Indes Orientales … the seafaring nations of Europe had been building Indiamen for generations, and they all looked very much the same.  Indiamen had to be beamy enough to carry as much cargo as possible, and sturdy enough to stand a global voyage.  Their hulls looked a lot like a ship of the line, which were _also_ designed to be a stable platform for as much weight as possible. 

In fact, the _Santa Catarina_ had even been painted with a pair of white strakes, running around her hull, in order to resemble a ship of the line as much as possible. 

The hairs stiffened on the back of his neck, as the idea took hold in his mind. 

* * *

 

That night, the moon slid through the clouds, gleaming down on the sea.  Southwick watched through his night-glass, and reported that the two privateers had closed in under the moonlight, so as to not lose them again in the dark. 

“We could try chasing them in the dark, sir?” Southwick suggested, hopefully. 

“No,” Ramage said.  “I’m not playing Round the Mulberry Bush in the dark.  We’ll stick to the original plan.” 

A rain-squall hammered the convoy at midnight, but it passed quickly.  As the moon went down, it seemed to take all the light from the sky with it.  The stars were blanketed in clouds.  The sea was dark. 

Ramage stood on the deck, alone with his thoughts.  His eyes felt tired and heavy, as if holding them open against the weight of the night was too much effort.  Two nights in a row of disturbed sleep, and he was already having difficulty concentrating. 

He tried to see his convoy through Robert Kerguelen's eyes.  The ships sailed through the dark, their sails gleaming dully in the dark.  Just before the moon went down, the _Dido_ lit a single light at her masthead for her consorts to follow.  They could not afford to have them straggle again.  At three o’clock in the morning, the light went out, as if it had been accidentally blown out, and it took half an hour to light it again.  But now, the light was steady; sailing steadily south.  The ship of the line carried a beacon in the darkness.  

Ramage stood, watching that lantern sail away into the darkness.  Everything this night depended on that light. 

He turned around, and faced astern.  He could hear voices, speaking in Portuguese, explaining the plan one last time.  Aft of where he stood, the tow line ran out across the water.  He could hear the creaking of the cable, the complaint of the ship’s timbers as the dead weight of the _Gaviota_ ebbed and flowed with the movement of the sea.  Even with the difference in size between the two ships, the motion of the ship under him felt hobbled, lamed by the weight of the brig.  

The quarterdeck was dark as pitch.  The spanker above lost the wind occasionally, and fell in on itself with a leathery complaint.  It would have been the perfect evening for a pleasure cruise, if not for the enemies shadowing them. 

“Sir,” Martin whispered.  “It’s time, sir.” 

Ramage turned.  The little light of the warship was far ahead of them. 

 “Very well,” Ramage agreed.  “Dom Rodrigo, if you please.” 

The Portuguese officer took up the speaking trumpet, and shouted over the stern.  An angry reply came back from the _Gaviota,_ carried clearly on the gentle night air.  Ramage could not follow the words, but he heard Orsini and a few of the Portuguese men chuckle.  

Dom Rodrigo was shouting and waving his hands.  Captain Miranda of the _Gaviota_ was standing on his fo’c’sle and shaking his fist at Dom Rodrigo, getting into his role.  Other Portuguese officers were joining in, throwing the covers off their lanterns and waving their hands around.  The quarterdeck was suddenly well-lit. Their voices, loud grumpy Portuguese voices, would be carrying well over the water.  The _Santa Catarina_ could not look or sound any different tonight.  She had to look as if she was still full of terrified passengers, and not crammed with English sailors...

Ramage could see what was happening from the privateers’ point of view.  The Portuguese were having the same problems as last night.  The _Santa Catarina_ and the _Gaviota_ had dropped away again.  They were alone again, and undefended.  Here was a chance for another attack before the lumbering warship could come back.  

A rocket lifted off from the _Gaviota_ ’s stern. It lifted into the sky, a rising star, hot and bright.   The brig was lit up brightly while the rocket ran its course, and died.  Ramage realized that he could see every detail of Martin’s face. 

Dom Rodrigo turned around, and shouted toward the fo’c’sle.  Up there in the bow, Mr Hill was waiting, and as the rocket died the port-fire on the fo’c’sle began to glow brightly. 

The light was tamped sharply.  They wanted light, but not too much light!  From Ramage’s viewpoint, the ship’s bowsprit and headsails were lit up from below, while the main course was backlit like a silhouette.  The Portuguese officers shouted orders, and the sailors ran up the shrouds to furl the courses.  They were accustomed to working in the dark; but working while lit up from beneath by a ghostly blue glow must feel rather unusual.  The ship looked like a stage set, lit dramatically for something dark and spectacular. 

The courses were climbing now, being handed up by the men aloft.  The ship slowed sharply, and the _Gaviota_ suddenly seemed to be coming closer, following her own inertia.  Portuguese orders were being yelled in all directions,  and now Jackson was gripping Ramage’s shoulder and pointing with his other hand.  “There, sir!  Do you see it!” 

Ramage turned, and looked out over past the mizzen shrouds, and there was a schooner.  Her one square sail gleamed in the dark. 

Damn, they were close!  Dos Santos had not been exaggerating when he’d said the privateer was so close astern last night!  They were right on the convoy’s tails! 

“Where’s the other one?” Ramage hissed.  No English voices could be allowed to break the _Santa Catarina'_ s disguise. 

“Sir!”  A hand pointed out into the dark.  “Other side of the _Gabby-Otter!”_  

“Who’s that – Curtis?  You’ve good eyes!”  

The _Gaviota’_ s rocket burned out, and darkness fell, but the privateers were here.  They had been lurking in the dark until their prey revealed itself, and now they were sweeping in for an attack, unaware of the trap waiting. 

The portfire on the fo’c’sle died suddenly.  Hill had put the light out.  The portfire had done its job.  The sharks had scented blood, and they were coming. 

 _“Senhor!”_   one of the Portuguese yelled, pointing. 

Ramage turned in time to see a distant light flash across the sea.  A few seconds later he heard the _bom-bomp_ of long guns firing. 

The warship had realized the danger, and she was coming to the rescue.  She was firing her bow chasers to warn the privateers that she was coming to the rescue.  The guard dog was barking, but she was too far away – much too far away, even further than she had been last night. 

The privateers must have seen the flashes of her guns, but they did not bother to change course.  They could get this done quickly, efficiently, before the lumbering _Dido_ was anywhere near.  This fight would be over and done, long before she could get back up to defend her charges.

 _If it were done_ _when 'tis_ _done_ _, then 'twere well it were_ _done quickly…_ “Tell Mr Loach to open fire!” Ramage passed the order to a midshipman who bolted off with the message.  English orders could not be shouted; not yet. 

The _Gaviota_ sent another rocket roaring off into the sky, and the privateer was suddenly frighteningly close.  She was passing the  _Gaviota_.  She was coming for the Indiaman, the richest prize of all.  That captain was planning to put his ship alongside, throw grappling hooks across the gap, and overwhelm the Portuguese in a boarding action. 

 _You’re in for a surprise, pal…_ Ramage knotted his fists, forcing himself to stand still.

The first of Loach’s guns fired, coughing golden smoke and fire into the dark, but an Indiaman could not muster the massive broadside of a ship of the line.  Only a few guns fired, in a weak staggered broadside. 

The privateer was not deterred by the _Santa Catarina'_ s broadside.  She was going to close now, right now, and get it over with as fast as possible.  She was going to take the damage from those guns, and hope to overrun the _Santa Catarina’s_ crew entirely before the warship arrived to rescue her. 

“Three points to starboard!” Ramage ordered.  They could not be seen to be inviting contact!  They had to pretend to evade the privateers for as long as they could.  The ship’s wheel spun, and the ship heeled, swinging clumsily away from the oncoming privateer, but not far enough.  The privateer swung too, following her prey in her turn. 

“Cut the tow!” Ramage said. 

A moment later he heard axes hammering.  The deck under him jerked, and then seemed to surge forward as the ship regained her full agility, without the counterweight of the brig at her stern.  The _Gaviota_ was dead in the water. 

  _“If it were done…”_ Ramage thought, and was surprised to hear himself speak the line aloud. 

“Here she comes,” Jackson muttered. 

The privateer was coming, sliding alongside.  She was following the Indiaman’s turn, and steering in to collide deliberately.  Ramage ran to the ship’s side to look down at her.  Her deck was sliding past below him.  “Wait for it,” he reached back with one palm raised.  “Wait for it!” 

The long lean deck below him was lit up like the Vauxhall Gardens, and packed with men.  He could hear them banging the hilts of their swords on their ship’s rails, ramping up their own courage as well as trying to spook their enemies.  The gap between the ships was narrowing, closer and closer.  

Twenty feet – ten feet.  The privateer’s bowsprit was reaching the larboard cathead. 

“That’s close enough!” Ramage barked.  He whirled and raised his voice in a bellow. 

_**"RUN OUT!  FIRE AS YOU BEAR!”** _

Ramage heard his order repeated by hundreds of voices, roaring.  The gun crews had been waiting for the command and now they shouted them aloud.  Hundreds of hands flashed to raise the port lids.  Blocks and gun carriages squealed.  Every gun port opened as a single machine. 

Ramage wondered how the change looked from the point of view of that privateer’s captain.  The ‘Indiaman’s’ two white strakes had suddenly broken up into a checkerboard pattern.  Two rows of gun ports opened as one – _gun ports that_ _should not be there_ …

The first few guns fired at once, and then all the rest exploded in a single roll.  The ship staggered under Ramage’s feet.  His night vision was lost instantly, and his eardrums whooped in protest at the assault.  The smoke was like a bloom of gold, pierced and inflamed by lances of shot stabbing into the dark.  The entire larboard battery had fired in a single broadside at point blank range, straight into the schooner alongside.

“ _Look!_ ” Kenton screamed.  _“It worked, it worked!”_

The privateer’s elegant masts were collapsing like a house cards.  She had stopped dead in the water, masts gone, sides smashed in. 

The privateer had been built for speed and agility – not to withstand the full broadside of a battleship at point-blank range.  Almost a thousand pounds of solid iron shot had crushed her instantly like a little bird under a mallet.  Ramage could hear men screaming in agony and shock under the ringing of his eardrums.  A moment ago those men were roaring at the _Dido_ in bloodlust; now they were screaming.

Ramage turned away from the destruction he had done.  The trap was sprung.  There was no need to hide what the _Dido_ was any longer.  

“One down, one to go!” he shouted.  “Ready about!  Stand by to tack!  Put us alongside number two!” 

“Aye aye, sir!”  Kenton sprang back to the wheel to scream helm and sail orders through his trumpet. 

The second privateer had been running up on the other side of the _Gaviota._   She had seen the _Dido_ unmask herself, and she was already swinging to flee.  Her staysails were thrashing as she swung around in momentary confusion, and then filled, and then she was standing steadily away.  

The _Dido_ responded to her helm, and the sail trimmers ran from their guns to haul the yards around.  Like a shark on the hunt, she came around, and began closing in on the fleeing privateer.  Kenton screamed his orders, and the _Dido_ ’s sails filled, steadying her. 

The _Dido_ might be sluggish, but at this distance no speed could save the second privateer now.  She was at point blank range.  She could have tried to prolong her life by clinging to the side of the helpless Portuguese brig, knowing that the warship would be reluctant to open fire for fear of killing civilians, but her captain must have panicked by the sudden shocking murder of his consort.  The schooner was racing away, her sails pushing her along.  She was already accelerating, but the _Dido_ was right behind her. 

 “She’s going to walk away from us again!”  Kenton said. 

“She’s not walking away from _this!_ ” Ramage said grimly, his mind racing.  “Two points to starboard.  Keep him fine on the starboard bow.” 

“Two points to starboard, aye aye,” the quartermaster echoed, and the men turned the spokes.  Ramage watched, and waited. 

The wind came in over the Dido’s port quarter.  This was the _Dido_ ’s best point of sailing, but even so, she wouldn’t catch the schooner.  Her huge sail area would have given her an advantage, but not with so much weed dragging her back.  Then again, she didn't need to catch the schooner at all.  She was at point blank range.  All the Dido had to do now was swing her larboard broadside to face the fleeing privateer, and open fire.  

That captain over there had to realize that in a minute or so.  His only chance of getting away from another broadside was to luff up _into_ the wind.  His ship could point higher into the wind than any square-rigger ever could, and _then_ he would walk away from the _Dido_ again.  Yes – he would try to get to windward of the _Dido,_ before it was too late.  It would be a race, but he could do it if he was quick. 

“Mr Kenton, warn the gun crews we’ll be engaging with the _starboard_ battery.”

“To starboard, sir?  I mean, aye aye, sir.” Kenton shouted the order, and Ramage could hear the drumming of feet, as the crews ran across to the starboard side and began running the guns out. 

The privateer was on the starboard bow, almost hidden.  Kenton expected Ramage to turn the _Dido_ to starboard, downwind, and cross the privateer’s stern with the larboard broadside.  Turning to port instead and firing the starboard guns would mean turning _away_ from the enemy, head-to-wind.  The _Dido_ would lose all their speed.  The schooner would get away.  

Ramage was rubbing the scars on his forehead.  He had only one chance to get this right – he would never catch up again with such a nimble opponent. 

“She’s outpacing us!” Kenton said.   

“I don’t want to _catch_ her,” Ramage said.  “I want to destroy her!” 

There was no time to explain.  He could not turn yet.  Not yet.  The _Dido_ needed more speed for what he had in mind.  The sea was beginning to gurgle alongside.   Her huge sail area began to draw properly; she was getting up to her full speed…

How long would it take that captain over there to realize he was inviting a full broadside on that course?  Long enough?  It all depended on how fast that captain could recover from his shock and start thinking tactically.  He had to know that the only way to get away from another broadside was to luff up quickly and try to get away to windward.  

Ramage realized that he was rubbing at the scars on his brow again. 

“Pegg,” he called to the quartermaster.  “When I give the word, we’ll be luffing up to larboard.  Instantly, you understand?”

“Aye aye, sir,” Pegg agreed.  He glanced at the helmsmen.  “Sharpish!  You heard Mr Ramage!” 

Ramage turned forward.  “Ready at the braces, there!” 

Kenton echoed his orders, and the sail-trimmers ran to their places.  He could see the glow of faces looking aft at him.  The privateer was still on the starboard bow, but getting closer and closer to the Dido’s headsails as she overhauled the ship of the line. 

And then, Ramage saw the angle of her sails change.  The surface of the canvas ruffled as the rudder suddenly bit into the water. 

“He’s coming about!  He’s coming about!”

Ramage whirled.  “Hard a port!” he shouted at Pegg.  “Luff up!” 

His words almost fumbled over each other, but the sailtrimmers had to have been electrified.  The _Dido_ turned into the wind, sails thrashing – but the privateer had turned too.  Both ships had turned at exactly the same moment, wheeling so that they were suddenly parallel.  The _Dido_ was head-to-wind, losing speed.  She couldn’t sail on this course; she must tack or fall into irons.  She would start going backwards, but she didn’t need to sail: the privateer was directly on the starboard beam.  Their rapid turn had put them _directly_ where Ramage wanted them. 

Ramage ignored the wildly thrashing sails, the deep groan as the masts protested.  “Fire as she bears!”  Ramage shouted. 

The guns bellowed, drumming down the warship’s side as the _Dido_ turned across the eye of the wind.  The crash of shots seemed to walk aft towards Ramage as each gun captain in turn pulled on his lanyard, and sent his lethal load at the fragile privateer. 

The privateer was pointing higher than the _Dido_ , but it didn’t matter now.  The sides were the most heavily armoured point in a ship of the line, but the tiny privateer’s side merely presented her attacker with a larger target.  The schooner stopped in the water as abruptly as if she’d run onto a rock.  There were clouds of dust jetting from the privateer, like smoke, but he knew those were showers of splinters spinning like knives from every heavy 32-pound ball hitting her.

The _Dido_ lumbered around onto the other tack, her sails banging and snapping as she met the wind again.  She was rolling from side to side, making almost no way.  The sail-trimmers were moving like madmen, dragging the sails across the midline to catch the wind from the other tack.  For a moment Ramage cringed, waiting for the crunching and tearing of spars cracking and ripping away under pressure.  

“Yes!”  Southwick bellowed, his night glass pressed to his eye.  “Yes!  Look at her _go!_   Look at her _go!”_

“Mr Kenton!” Ramage shouted. “Bear away.  We’ll go back and finish her off!”

The headsails filled, at last, and she began to turn around.  And then the spanker boom over his head ran over onto the other tack with a rattle and a clatter, brought up by the arresting tackles. The _Dido_ turned ponderously, lumbering further away from her enemy second by second.

Ramage was forced to run up onto the poop deck to see.  The _Dido_ ’s tack into the wind had put his enemy behind him.  He could hear Kenton on the quarterdeck below shouting orders, hauling the sails across, coaxing the wind back.  Kenton wore her around, and sent her lumbering back toward the privateer. 

“Stand by to fire the starboard guns again,” Ramage called down over the rail.  “We’ll give them another load!” 

The _Dido_ gathered speed, bearing down on the privateer with her guns grinning.  For a moment, Ramage could see in his mind’s eye what she must look like from the privateer – a merciless, unfeeling giant about to crush the little schooner, and the schooner was helpless to step out of the giant’s way. 

“They’re surrendering!” Orsini shouted from next to his carronades at Ramage’s side.    “Do you hear that!” 

There were screams coming out of the night from the schooner.  _“Je me rends!  Je me rends!”_  

Ramage ran back to the rail.  “Hold your fire!” he shouted down over the poop rail. 

The _Dido’_ s poop deck was suddenly brightly lit.  Sharp shadows fell across the deck. 

Ramage whirled on his heel, to stare back at the _Gaviota._   The brig had fired another rocket.  The rocket blazed into the sky and went out, but the light lasted long enough. 

For a moment he could not see the first privateer.  Had she sank already?  No, she was still close to the _Gaviota_ , a dismasted black lump, low in the water.  She was opsided, as if she was sitting down in the water. 

“They’re sinking,” he said, understanding.

“Let ‘em sink,” Orsini said, from his station behind his carronades.  The French Army had occupied Volterra, Ramage remembered, his mind plucking up the irrelevant thought.  No servant of Bonaparte should ever ask Paolo Orsini for mercy.

The dismasted schooner was sinking, but he saw a single sail flapping at her bowsprit.  They couldn’t go very far with their ship sinking under them, but they didn’t have to go far.  The dismasted _Gaviota_ was as helpless as a hunting lure, and stuffed full of hostages. 

“Mr Kenton!” he  shouted down to the quarterdeck.  “Bring us about, and heave to between the _Gaviota_ and the wreck.” 

“They’re going to rush the _Gaviota_!” Orsini said, guessing what Ramage had seen.

“The _Gaviota_ ’s not going anywhere,” Jackson said.  “What will they do?” 

“And if they get a crop of hostages, what will _you_ do?” Orsini snapped. 

Ramage left them, and dashed down the rail to the quarterdeck.  He took his place next to Kenton and Southwick, and stared ahead at the _Gaviota._  

The privateer was sinking, but she could still move; the _Gaviota_ could not.  The privateer lurched against the _Gaviota’_ s side, and the men on her decks swarmed.  Grappling hooks darted through the air, and small arms began to crackle.  The _Dido_ could not fire into the _Gaviota_ , and the privateers knew it. 

 _Hundreds_ of hostages… “Mr Kenton,” Ramage said.  “Boarding parties ready to send away.  Pegg!  Put us alongside the _Gaviota!_   We’ll retake her from the starboard side.”

He would not put the _Dido_ alongside the privateer.  She was sinking.  If she sank suddenly, she would take Ramage’s boarding party down with her. 

“Sir – permission to lead the boarding party across?”  Southwick asked, eagerly. 

“No!” Ramage said.  “Mr Kenton, you have the ship.” 

“I have the ship,” Kenton repeated dutifully. 

Ramage looked around for Jackson, and found him gripping his cutlass in his hand, grimly.  Jackson met his eye and nodded, without a word.  Where Ramage went, Jackson would follow. 

Forward, along the _Dido_ ’s gundecks, the men who had been designated in the General Quarters Bill as boarders were  massing on the gangways, a dark crowd of men, and humming with the not-quite-sound of imminent violence.  They were not shouting.  They did not need to shout.  They were supremely confident, and their confidence needed no noise. 

Ramage went down the gangway with Jackson close behind him, and joined them.  “Mr Loach?” 

“Here, cap’n!”  

“I’m coming with you, lads.” 

“Can’t leave you out of it, sir!”  someone close to him enthused happily.   

The _Gaviota_ ’s side came up – closer and closer.  The details of her rigging were suddenly alarmingly clear, at closer quarters than ships were designed to see each other, and then her hull vanished below the level of the Dido’s own bulwarks.  The helmsmen spun the wheel the other way as the _Dido_ went alongside the _Gaviota_ with a horrible scraping crash.  The _Dido_ shuddered.  The grappling hooks flew across the darkness.  They lodged in the rigging, and the massive _Dido_ slewed, trying to drag the dead weight of the _Gaviota_ around.  Kenton was screaming orders through the speaking trumpet, slackening the sails so that the _Dido_ did not simply plough straight over the little brig. 

Ramage drew his sword and sprang onto the rail.  “Boarding party away!” he yelled. 

The _Gaviota_ ’s deck was below him, and stretched away from him by the width of the _Dido’_ s tumblehome.  Nothing for it but to jump.  Ramage gathered his legs under him, and launched himself bodily across the gap. 

He cleared the hammock nettings, but landed on someone.  He fell over them, rolled up, and raised his sword ready.  He dragged himself to his feet before he was trampled in the crush. 

 _“Didos!”_ he roared, _“Didos!”_  

His shout was taken up by the men around him, and a moment later he was nearly crushed by a wall of men jumping down to the _Gaviota_ after him.  He staggered as he was shoved from behind, and looked around.  He was surrounded by familiar faces, which meant his enemies were not here. 

“To the port side!  Come on!”  He led a rush of shouting men around the _Gaviota’s_ main hatch. 

And _here_ were French voices, along the rail, and French blades.  The privateers had helpfully tied strips of cloth around their heads to distinguish themselves in the dark, and that idea turned against them now as the _Gaviota’_ s deck was suddenly filled with a rush of Britons.  Anyone with a cloth around his head was struck down. Ramage pushed himself forward.  Jackson was at his side, lashing out with his cutlass.  The deck was crowded with pushing, shoving, shouting men, struggling in the dark.  There was no space here for fencing – just force and strength and stabbing.  No room for the length of a sword, and he pulled out his dagger, and used it instead.  Jab – jab – jab!  He could hear Italian howls – Orsini and Rossi fighting together, shoulder to shoulder. 

Ramage lunged at a man in an officer’s uniform, and then there was a clang over his right ear as Jackson parried a blade right over his head.  Jackson was pushed back, overpowered by the Frenchman, and Ramage stabbed his dagger into Jackson’s opponent’s throat.  Ramage was drenched in a gout of hot blood. 

“Thanks!” Jackson gasped.  

“Don’t mention it!” 

Ramage had lost his sword, but he still held his dagger.  He drew the pistol from his belt, fired it into someone’s face, and then with the dagger in one hand and the pistol as a club in the other he pressed forward again with Jackson at his side. 

The privateersmen were outnumbered, and desperate.  They fought hard, but the sudden arrival of a hundred fresh fighting men from the _Dido_ had tipped the balance.  They fell back to the _Gaviota_ ’s port side, where they had come from.  Some of them jumped on the rail, ready to jump back to their own ship, and there they stopped.  There was nowhere to go. 

Ramage heard the first shout of _“Je me rends!  Je me rends!”_

“Throw down your swords!” he shouted in French, pointing at the nearest Frenchman with the pistol.  They looked at each other, and their blades fell. 

“Scott!  Hotchkiss!  You and you and you and you!  Gather them!  Watch them!  The rest of you – after me!”  Ramage left his prisoners by the bulwark and went in search of more, but blades were already falling to the deck, and men were starting to cheer instead of scream. 

He pushed aft, climbed halfway up the ladder to the _Gaviota_ ’s quarterdeck, and turned on the ladder to survey the ship.  There were knots of fighters on the fo’c’sle where Frenchmen still struggled against the inevitable, but the ship’s waist was beginning to go quiet.  The arrival of the British had tipped the balance. 

“Up!” he ordered Jackson and the others, and they went the rest of the way up the ladder and broke out onto the quarterdeck. 

Right aft, he found a group of Portuguese pinning a group of Frenchmen against the ship’s taffrail.  _“Je me rends!  Je me rends!”_  

“Where is your captain?” 

A hand pointed back to the sinking privateer.  “Still in the _Louise_.  Dead!  We surrender!” 

Ramage turned, and found himself facing the captain of the _Gaviota_.  Captain Miranda was shaking violently, and his face was purple.  He clapped Ramage on both shoulders, and shouted something at him in Portuguese that sounded a mixture of exhilaration and terror. 

“Yes, yes, that’s good,” Ramage said, unable to communicate.  He clapped the captain on the shoulder.  “Any below?” he asked, pointing to the deck.  “Below – _Francesadas?”_

 _“Nao, nao,”_ the Portuguese master shouted, and added something else. 

“They battened down all the hatches,” Orsini reported, appearing at Ramage’s elbow.  He was panting hard.  “None of the Frenchmen got below.” 

“Good.  Tell him – tell him we’ll …”

“She’s going down!”  someone shouted.  Lieutenant Loach was standing on the rail, pointing down over the _Gaviota_ ’s side.  His figure was lit up by the _Gaviota_ ’s lanterns.  “She’s going down!” 

His shout was echoed in Portuguese. 

Ramage moved to the side.  The _Louise_ ’s bulwark was rolling up.  She was turning turtle, filling with water, turning more and more of her hull toward Ramage’s gaze.  The Atlantic was claiming her.  When the sea came in over the top of her bulwarks, she would go, all at once. 

The _Gaviota_ was beginning to roll unhappily, disturbed by her consort falling away from her.  The _Gaviota’_ s master sprinted forward, shouting orders, and a moment later the axes thumped.  The Portuguese were cutting the grappling lines that had joined the privateer to the _Gaviota_.  The British seamen joined them.  The _Gaviota_ could not be tied to the sinking privateer when she was sucked down under the surface. 

Ramage watched, gripping the rail with suddenly tight fingers.  , but the brig seemed stable.  The _Louise_ was groaning.  It was her death cry, as the water powered through her hull, twisting her timbers out of shape, squeezing the air from every partition. 

She had been a pretty ship.  Dangerous, but pretty, and he felt a pang of sorrow that he had destroyed such daintiness. 

Her crew were abandoning her, losing their home and all their possessions to the sea.  Men were climbing over the _Louise’_ s rail, balancing on the side of the hull and jumping off into the sea between the _Louise_ and the _Gaviota._  

It was time for seamanship to take over from warfare.  They had to get the survivors out of the water before they drowned.  He did not have time to spectate, and he turned his back on the _Louise._  

“Mr Kenton!” he shouted across to the _Dido,_ still hooked onto the other side.   He could see one white strake looming over the _Gaviota_ ’s rail. 

“Sir?”  Kenton’s scream came back from the Dido’s quarterdeck.  He must be on the rail, watching. 

“Boats away, and prepare to rescue survivors!  The privateer is going down!” 

Kenton shouted his acknowledgement. 

Dom Rodrigo appeared in front of him.  He sheathed his sword, and touched his sweaty brow in a salute.  _“Senhor!”_ he said.  “You are _offendido!_   Wounded!”

“No, I’m fine.” 

“Is none of that yours?” 

Ramage blinked at him, and then stared down at himself.  In the light of the lanterns, the entire front of his uniform was black and shiny.  Shirt, waistcoat, and the white facings of his coat were all black, and the front of his breeches were splotched and wet.  He remembered receiving a gush of blood in the fight. 

“I cut a man,” Ramage said.  “None of it is mine.” 

Dom Rodrigo nodded.  “Then the night is yours, captain!  I congratulate you!” 

“Let’s get those prisoners rounded up before we celebrate!” Ramage said.  “Find the captain, and tell him to hoist out his boats for survivors!  Mr Loach!  I’m going back to the _Dido_.   I’m leaving you in charge here!  Round up those prisoners!  And then help pick up survivors!” 

“Aye aye, sir!” Loach boomed, and wheeled around to bellow orders.  “Right-o, let’s get this show on the road!  Mr Orsini – take parties forward – if there are any Frogs hiding up there root ‘em out.  Mr Singer, round up the survivors as they come aboard, and put an armed guard on them!  Count ‘em and disarm them!”    

“Aye aye, sir!” 

“You’re going to rescue them?” Dom Rodrigo asked, surprised.  “Not leave them to swim?” 

“That’s what we _do,”_ Ramage said, equally surprised by the idea that he might not rescue the privateer’s men. 

“Sir!  Sir!” someone called to Ramage.  “Here’s the _Santa Catarina!”_

A cluster of lights was bearing past, floating serenely.  It was the _Santa Catarina_ , fresh from her masquerade as the _Dido_.  The sound of shouting came to his ears.  Ramage’s gaze picked out the white crossbelts of the _Dido_ ’s Marines, put into the Indiaman as an insurance policy against the privateers not falling for his ruse. 

Dos Santos had played his part perfectly, firing his guns as if he was the _Dido_ firing her bow chasers.  Now the _Santa Catarina_ could be left to help the _Gaviota_ fish the drowning privateersmen out of the water. The _Dido_ herself had work to do…  

“We’ll leave picking up the survivors to the _Santa Catarina_ ,” Ramage decided.  “Dom Rodrigo – shout across and tell Dos Santos to hoist out his boats.”  

“As you order,” Dom Rodrigo agreed. 

Ramage went to the ladder and began to run down, raising his voice as he went.  “Mr Orsini’s  division!  With me!  All of Mr Orsini’s division, back to the ship!  We’ve got work to do!” 

He sprang across to the _Dido’_ s main chains, and clambered up.  Eager hands reached down and helped him over the bulwark.  The _Dido_ was rolling and battering against the _Gaviota,_ without anything between them to act as a fender.  The _Gaviota’s_ hull had taken a pounding from _both_ sides of the war tonight, Ramage thought; he wondered if she was insured for that! 

Ramage reached the quarterdeck, receiving the salutes of his officers.  “Prepare to get under way immediately, Mr Kenton.” 

“Sir…” Kenton said. 

“I’m all right, none of it is mine!  Bear away, get us clear of the _Gaviota._   We’re going back to deal with number 2.  Send Mr Bennett to take over Mr Loach’s division – and Mr Blake, go take over the carronades!” 

“Aye aye, sir.” 

“One down, one still out there.” 

It was a simple enough manouevre to get the _Dido’s_ headsails drawing, and her bow turning away from the _Gaviota._   Ramage took over the conn, directing Pegg to where the second privateer had last been seen. 

A few minutes later, the _Dido_ began to gather speed, the sea gurgling down her sides, the breeze just strong enough to whisper in the rigging.  Ramage stood, and scanned the night around them.  The ship was silent.  The gun crews – less the men left behind in the _Gaviota_ – were standing by their guns, ready. 

The sea was dark, out there.  No lights, no fire. 

“Can they have gone down so fast?” Kenton breathed, half to himself. 

“We’d hear them calling for help, if they had,” Ramage said. 

“Sir, the _Louise_ has gone,” someone said, and Ramage turned. 

Astern, lanterns were glowing all around the _Gaviota_ and the _Santa Catarina_.  As Ramage watched, another rocket went up from the _Gaviota,_ lighting the sea all around the two ships.  The _Louise_ had gone.  The glistening waves around the _Gaviota_ were broken by debris and the heads of swimmers.  The sounds of the rescue were dulled at this distance, but still audible.  Sound carried well over water. 

“If that one was the _Louise,”_ Kenton said, “Then the one out here must be the _Diligente.”_

“Where the devil is she hiding?” Southwick muttered, irritably.  “She was _right_ _here._ ” 

“She’s not here now,” Ramage said.  They should be in sight by now.  “Send up a rocket, if you please, Mr Kenton.” 

Kenton’s orders sent men scurrying off.  A few minutes later, one of the _Dido_ ’s own signal rockets blazed hissing into the clouds.  The sharp red light lit up the sea in a ring all around them, but the waves rolled by, unbroken. 

“She’s gone,” Kenton said. 

“She can’t have _gone_ ,” Southwick said.  “There would be swimmers in the water.  And wreckage.  Where the devil are they?” 

The rocket died.  The darkness was a trackless void all around them, pressing in on them from all sides.  Ramage ordered the _Dido_ to come about, and steer in a wide arc from side to side.  No screams for help.  No lights.  No wreckage. 

Even if the proportion of swimmers in the _Diligente_ ’s crew was no better than a typical English ship, there would be _some_ people in the water.  And everyone knew that swimmers in deep water attracted the attention of sharks.  Ships sank, and the ocean white-tips arrived.   

But there was nothing. 

“They’ve gone,” Kenton said.  “They’ve gone down, the poor bastards.” 

“They’ll have got into their boats,” Ramage guessed. 

“If they were in their boats, they would be trying to catch our attention,” Southwick said.  He took off his hat, and rubbed his face.  “Who’d want to row all the way to South America from here?”

“Poor fellows have gone down,” Kenton said.  “All hands, all at once – I’ve seen it happen before.” 

“They haven’t gone down,” Ramage said, grimly.  “They had one mast still standing.  They sneaked off, and left the _Louise_ to our mercy.” 

“They can’t have done repairs so quickly, surely?” Kenton asked, his voice hushed. 

“This fellow is too good at his job,” Southwick said. 

“It’s Kerguelen,” Ramage said, and saw Southwick look at him.  They had both forgotten in the heat of the battle that they knew the man they faced tonight. 

Ramage gave another order to the quartermaster. 

The _Dido_ tacked around, and again, sweeping the sea, but there was no sign of the other privateer.  The darkness that had helped Ramage earlier was now helping his enemies get away.  The _Diligente_ might only be a few cables away, but it was enough.  Either the night or the Atlantic had swallowed them up. 

They had to be there, obviously, just out of sight, holding their breaths that the prowling ship of the line did not blunder into them.  They could see the _Dido,_ but the _Dido_ could not see them.  The only way for the _Dido_ to find them would be to circle in the dark and hope to run into them by chance – except that the _Diligente_ would be silently fleeing in the dark, as quickly as she was still able. 

He had to give Kerguelen his due: he’d made just enough repairs to get under way, and then he’d limped off.  His discipline over his men must be absolute: no lights or sounds had given them away. 

“One down, one still out there, sir, as you say,” Southwick agreed. 

“He can’t do us much harm, now,” Ramage said.  “We’ll be over the horizon long before he’s ready to trouble us again.  Take us back to the _Gaviota_ , Mr Kenton.  We’ve prisoners to collect.” 

* * *

 

Ramage went back on board the _Gaviota_ with Doctor Bowen in his boat. 

Not a navy ship, even though she was manned by almost a hundred of his own men, and there was no elaborate coming-aboard ceremony.  He was greeted by familiar faces even before he came aboard – with two of his own men holding out the manropes to help him climb. 

“Welcome back, captain!” one of them whispered, gleefully, as if determined to wedge in at least _some_ of the ceremony due to a post captain. 

Ramage found Dom Rodrigo waiting for him, with Loach and Orsini close behind. 

“Congratulations, captain!” Dom Rodrigo said, shaking his hand.  “A resounding victory!  You’ll be the toast of Brazil when the news reaches the fleet!” 

“Thank you,” Ramage retrieved his hand.  “Mr Loach?”

“Sir,” Loach reported, his hand at his hat.  “The ship is secure.  We have seventy-three prisoners.”

“Killed and wounded?” Ramage asked, as Bowen dragged himself up through the entry port behind him with a grunt of effort. 

“Eight of ours killed, nineteen wounded.  The Portuguese are worse off – twenty-seven dead, three times as many wounded.  The French – it’s hard to know yet who’s wounded, and who’s just wet.” 

“I’ll go and assist the surgeon directly,” Bowen said, and bustled off. 

“Where’s Captain Miranda?”  Ramage asked. 

“Below, sir, talking to the passengers.  He’s got ‘em well in hand, sir, and he’s told his seamen to do whatever Dom Rodrigo tells them to do.” 

“I’m at your service, _senhor,_ ” Dom Rodrigo said.  _“Senhor_ – we saw no guns fired?” 

Ramage blew out his lips.  “They’ve slipped away,” he said.  “They must have cut away their wreckage, and got away with just the foremast.”

“Aaah, _merda!_ ” Orsini said, bitterly, and tossed up one hand in a familiar Italian gesture of disgust. 

“I’m satisfied,” Ramage said.  “If they’re in sight at dawn we’ll deal with them.  If not, they’re not our problem.”

“They can go away and sink for all I care,” Orsini said. 

No servant of Bonaparte should ever, _ever_ think to ask Orsini for mercy.  “Who’s the senior surviving French officer?” Ramage asked.  “I want to see him.” 

“I have him locking in the captain’s cabin with one of your men guarding him,” Dom Rodrigo said.  “This way.” 

“Mr Loach,” Ramage said, before following Dom Rodrigo.  “The Portuguese can’t be expected to both repair this ship _and_ guard scores of prisoners.  Start ferrying them over to the _Dido_ in batches.  Mr Kenton is expecting you.” 

“Aye aye, sir,” Loach said, turning away.

Ramage followed Dom Rodrigo down a hatchway and to a door set in the aft companionway.  “Do you speak French?” Dom Rodrigo asked, “or should I translate for you?”

“I speak it,” Ramage said. 

Dom Rodrigo knocked, and the door was opened from the inside.  The man was sihouetted by a candle in the cabin behind him, a looming black shape, but Ramage recognised him as one of the _Dido_ ’s topmen. 

“Sir,” the man greeted, stepping back to allow Ramage in.  He raised his knuckles to his forehead.  He was gripping a French-made musket in one hand. 

“Well, Michaels, what have you got here?” 

“Mongseer Pascal, what was lately first mate of the _Louise,_ sir,” Michaels said.  “He’s a bit wet, sir, but the Porrie doc says he’s none the worst for wear.” 

“Very good,” Ramage said.  Dom Rodrigo had closed the door behind him.  They  stood for a moment and had a look at the man sitting on the settee under the gaze of another of Ramage’s men.

He sat slumped on the settee, his arms crossed over his chest.  He wore only a shirt and trousers.  His hair hung over his face in thick wet rat-tails, black in the candlelight.  His eyes rolled up to meet Ramage’s, clearly determined not to give the Englishman the satisfaction of showing interest. 

Ramage turned a chair around with a hand on its back, and sat down.  “I understand your name is Pascal?”  Ramage said to him in French.

The Frenchman’s eyes registered surprise at being spoken to in fluent French, and then he shut his expression quickly, determined to give nothing away.  “I am lieutenant Louis Pascal.” 

“My name is Ramage.  The ship which sank yours is named the _Dido.”_

“I was manhandled when I surrendered,” he grumbled.  “It isn’t right, and I am going to complain to the commissioner for the exchange of prisoners!  I am going to be covered in bruises tomorrow.  Your Portuguese friends are thugs.  Where is my coat?  Where is my hat?  They have stolen them, that is where they are.”  He seemed to remember that he was a prisoner, and subsided into resentful silence. 

“My Portuguese friends kept you alive when you were sunk in the process of trying to capture their ship,” Ramage said.  “I need to know some things from  you.  I know that your ship was the _Louise._  I know that the other is the _Diligente_.  I need to know where the _Diligente_ is going?”

“I will tell you nothing.” 

“You had better,” Ramage said. 

“I have no secrets to give up, so you’re wasting your time.” 

Ramage looked at Dom Rodrigo, and flicked his brows up and down.  Dom Rodrigo gave a tiny nod. 

“It’s not _me_ you have to convince,” Ramage said, regretfully.  “You are in Portuguese hands.  This man thinks you are a pirate, and pirates are hanged.” 

“You can’t do that!” Pascal said. 

Ramage leaned forward, confidingly.  “I can take you to my ship, but only if this man,” he gestured to Dom Rodrigo, “is satisfied that you are a genuine privateer, and not a pirate.  Can you _prove_ that you have a letter of marque, and are not merely a pirate?” 

“You know very well that I cannot!” Pascal said.  “Our letter is on the bottom of the sea!” 

“Tell me something, then, which I can use to prove to him that you’re not a pirate.  I  don’t want to hand you over to a man of the Inquisition…”

“I am not a pirate, I am a privateer!  We sailed out of St Malo!”

“Can you prove it?” 

“Ask any of my crew – they will tell you the name of my ship, the _armateur,_ the owner…”

“Where were you going?”

“I don’t know,” Pascal said.  “Captain le Clerk didn’t tell us, and,” Pascal’s face lit up with relief, “and our sailing orders are in the bottom of the sea, so you have no way of finding out.” 

“Where is Captain le Clerk?”

“Dead.  You killed him. You and your trick.  That is not fair, what you did.”

“It was a legitimate _ruse de guerre_ , as you very well know.”

“It was not fair.  You are the pirate, monsieur, not me.”  Pascal sat up, suddenly, sudden anger on his face.  “Your name is Ramage,” he said, pronouncing the name in the French way.  “Your name is Ramage!  Not _Ram-edge!_ ”

“Yes, I said so,” Ramage said. 

Ramage’s sailor was beginning to look worried, and stepped closer into the candlelight.  “Everyfing all right, cap’n?” 

Ramage waved him to reassurance with one hand, and Michaels stepped back again. 

“You are the pirate Ramage!” Pascal snapped. 

“I am not a pirate.”  

“Yes, you are!  Well,” Pascal said, angrily.  “You may have won this time, pirate, but you won’t get away with it forever!  Your judgement is coming!  You wait and see, one day someone will catch you, and win that five million francs!” 

Ramage stared at him, startled.  “What five million francs?”

“The reward on your head!  You’re nothing but a pirate!  A murderer and a barbarian!  All of Europe knows about you now, and what you’ve done!  You wait – the justice  of France will catch up to you!  And then you will pay for your murders!  Ah!  Ahhh!”

“I am not a murderer!” Ramage said, shocked. 

“Yes, you are.  You killed Captain Brune in cold blood!”

Ramage could only stare at him, blinking hard.  Brune had been the privateer captain who slaughtered the crew and passengers of the _Tranquil._   To think he stood accused of murdering the vile Brune!  “I killed him,” Ramage said.  “But I killed him in a fair fight.” 

“You are a murderer.”Pascal sat back, and folded his arms across his chest.  “I would sooner take my chances with the Portuguese, who are at least a Christian nation, rather than a murderer of good honest French sailors!” 

Ramage turned to Dom Rodrigo.   “I don’t know whether to shout at him or shoot him,” Ramage said, in English. 

“Give it up,” Dom Rodrigo said.  “He will start talking in a few days on his own – he seems a talkish man to me.  But now I think he has said all he will say.” 

“What the hell is this about a reward?” Ramage said to Dom Rodrigo. 

“The reward Bonaparte put on your head?” 

“Five million francs!” 

“Equalising with the reward your government has put on …” Dom Rodrigo looked confused, and then corrected himself, “It is equal to the reward your government has put on Robert Surcouf’s capture?  Five million francs to the man who takes you alive.”

“But that’s…” Ramage stopped. 

“You don’t know about it already?” Dom Rodrigo asked.  “You have proven yourself to be a very clever raider.  Ships – islands – pirate gold  – Diamond Rock – a whole convoy all at once…  .” 

“Since when does doing your duty make you a pirate?” 

 “If it was not piracy, Bonaparte would accuse you of something else, I think.”  He pursed his lips as if he was about to blow out a candle, and regarded Ramage cautiously.  “You _are_ the officer in the song, are you not?  The Torre di Buranaccio?”

“That stupid song!” Ramage grumbled.  “I hated it the first time I heard it, I hate it even more now!”

“Not as much as Bonaparte hates it.  Your name is sung the length of Italy!  Bonaparte must hate you almost as much as he hates the Desired Lady of Volterra herself.”   Dom Rodrigo shrugged his shoulders, and rubbed his chin with finger and thumb.  “Singing that song anywhere a _gendarme_ can hear you will get you arrested!” 

Pascal was sitting on the settee, with his back straight and his head thrown back.  His lips were set, and his eyes were turned up to the deckhead, as if he expected Ramage to grab Michaels’ musket and put a ball into his martyred French heart immediately.  “Do your worst, pirate – Louis Pascal is not frightened to give his life for the glory of France!” 

The heroic pose was spoiled somewhat by the fact that his arms were still locked anxiously around his chest, and he was sitting on a low settee. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ramage snapped at him, irritated by his face.  “I won’t shoot you.  No, you’d make a mess on Captain Miranda’s curtains…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Meeting the fleet

 “Oh Lord,” Lieutenant Pascal said.

The men, ranked along the decks, hats off, waited in respectful silence.  Funerals were funerals, even for enemies at sea. Pascal's voice, speaking French,  was the only one on the _Dido’s_ crowded decks.   

Pascal's voice wobbled, but he managed to start again.  “We commend to Thee the soul of Thy servant Jean, that, having departed from this world, he may live with Thee.  And by the grace of Thy merciful life, wash the sins that in human frailty he committed in the conduct of his life.  Through Christ, our…” 

Ramage had been waiting for that moment.  He turned his head to the bearers of the shrouded corpse and nodded.   Rossi and Stafford tipped up the funeral byre.  The Frenchman's body slid out from under the Tricolour, and plummeted into the sea with a final  splash. 

There was a sigh, rising from the hundreds of men standing in silence. 

“… Our Lord.  Amen,” Pascal finished.  His voice choked off again. 

 _“Bosun,”_ Ramage hissed. 

“Firing detail!” the boatswain barked.  “Attention.  Present arms!  Aim!  Fire!” 

The row of Marines along the rail fired their muskets over the sea.  The crack of the shots in the silence made Ramage jump.  He  brought his hand up to the salute, and heard the rustle of thick woollen sleeves as his officers did the same behind him.   

“Ship’s company!  Dismissed!”  

The funeral was over. Stafford and Rossi were carrying away the mess-table that had served as the funeral byre, and Jackson was folding the French flag.  The _Dido_ 's ensign was rising back up the halliards from half-mast.  Even the French prisoners were brushing the tears out of their eyes, and turning away, back to the world of the living.  They had lost a shipmate last night, but ships must be sailed.  Seamen did not have time for long mourning.  There was always work to do. 

Pascal was still standing at the rail, staring at the sea and sniffling miserably.

"Poor lad," Jackson said quietly, at Ramage's elbow.  "I'd wager he's never conducted a funeral before, and now  he's done eight."

"Hmph!" Ramage said. 

Jackson shifted to Italian; the language of privacy between them, these days. "I feel sorry for the lad, sir.  His ship is gone, his friends are gone, he's surrounded by his enemies, and he's no older than twenty-one." 

"Yes," Ramage said, sourly, without taking his eyes off Pascal.  "The same age I was in the Torre di Buranaccio!" 

"You're tough.  But that lad is too soft for the sea."

"Then perhaps he should have stayed at home with his mother?" 

"Perhaps you're right," Jackson said.  "Stafford and Rossi tell me that he cries at night, when he thinks nobody can hear him.  All the seamen know about it." 

Ramage glanced at Jackson sharply, but Jackson didn't blink.  He put his straw hat on, settling it firmly onto his head. All Ramage's attempts to get him to wear a proper Naval black hat had failed.  He gazed back serenely under the straw brim at Ramage, as if waiting for a response. 

"I'll see if the Portuguese can keep him in Brazil," Ramage relented.  "Although I'm damned if I know _why_ I should feel sorry for my enemies."

"Because you're a good man," Jackson said, "and you know it." 

 

* * *

 

Jackson went below, down the ladders, deep below the waterline.  The orlop deck was always dark, and he navigated by lanternlight.  In the gunroom, he found only Paolo Orsini, writing in his journal by the light of a single lantern hooked into the deckhead. 

“Hullo, where is everyone?” he asked.   “Am I late for the whist game?” 

"There is no whist for you today," Orsini said. "Mr Singer asked me to make his apologies."

Jackson tossed his straw hat onto the table. Since there was not going to be any whist, he clambered over the chairs and reached for the locker where they kept their decks of cards. 

Orsini shifted his book to give him enough room on the table, and dipped his quill into his inkwell.  He started laying out cards on the table for a game of solitaire.

Space was tight in the Dido these days.  Their temporary gunroom was only a passage between the  cable tier and the passenger cabins.  The real gunroom had been was now filled with tiny cabins for the Portuguese passengers.  It was dark, hot, and airless. The sun was baking down on the ship, and the heat penetrated down through the hull, so that the orlop seemed like an oven.  

“Keeping your journal?” Jackson asked. _Heart on Spades – shift that column…_ The lantern over his head swivelled with the ship, so that his cards were lit one moment and then invisible the next. He had to avoid the natural temptation to lean along the angle of the light, which he knew would give him an aching neck in no time.

“Updating it.” 

“You’re going to make a fine lieutenant one day,” Jackson said. 

Orsini closed his book.    “No, I won’t.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Jackson said, surprised by the flat tone in Orsini’s voice.  “You’ll make an excellent lieutenant! You'll make an excellent captain too! It's just a matter of passing that exam.”

Orsini looked up at the bulkhead of the nearest cabins, as if he was listening for voices.  Female voices were speaking in Portuguese. English voices were arguing in the carpenter’s walk.   There was no privacy in a ship of the line, so Orsini spoke in Italian. 

“You don’t understand,” Orsini shook his head.  “It’s not that I will fail the examination.  It’s that I cannot  pass.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Jackson asked. 

 “The Catholic emancipation bill was defeated in Parliament this year,” Orsini said softly.  “The King refused to even hear it, and that killed it dead.”

 “But what has that to do with your examination?”

 “The Test Act Oath.  If I want a commission, I would have three months, legally, in which to find a magistrate and swear that I believe in the Church of England.”

 “Just swear it.”  Jackson advised, surprised.  Orsini had not seemed particularly pious before.  Most of the Royal Navy were not particularly religious – ‘Blue-light’ officers were the exception.  “It’s just a formality these days.”

 “But I am not only Catholic, I am also the heir to the Alabaster Throne.  For me, it is not just a formality.”

 “I thought you’d… just…” Jackson waved a hand. 

 “Lie about it?”

 “Not _lie!_   I meant convert.  At least on paper.”

 “Then I’d forfeit my inheritance.  A Protestant cannot sit on the Throne of Alabaster. And a Catholic cannot hold the King's commission.”

“Surely right now your inheritance is a…” he shifted to English.  “A moot point?” 

“If my aunt does not produce an heir, then I will inherit.  I am the _only_ clear legitimate heir.  If the succession is not clear, there will be fighting among the nobles in the cadet lines.”

Jackson had some idea of how vicious fighting between Tuscan noble houses could get.  “Can’t you ask the Crown for an exemption from the Test Act?”

 “No.” 

 “Doesn’t your aunt know the King personally?  She could ask him to make an exception for you.” 

 “No.”

 “Why not?”

 “Because, _reasons_ ,” Orsini said, flatly.

 Jackson knew something of the relationship between the Marchesa di Volterra and the King.  ‘Farmer George’ took a dim view of the Marchesa’s public affair with Captain Lord Ramage.  He took a dim view of the Ramage family in general, thanks to Jedediah Goddard’s influence at Court.  He would never grant a dispensation for the nephew of the Marchesa, and the protégé of Ramage.  “Damn.” 

 “Quite,” Orsini agreed. “Besides, I swore an oath to uphold Rome when I was knighted by the King of Naples.  I cannot swear two oaths in opposite directions.”

“I broke my oath to the King when my country declared its independence,” Jackson said. 

“Yes, but that’s different,” Orsini said.  "Your whole country declared its independence."

 “So what are you going to do?”

 “I have not decided yet,” Orsini admitted. 

 Jackson ran his hand over his hair.   “Wasn’t there one fellow who stayed a midshipman until he was an old man?” 

 “Billy Culmer,” Orsini agreed.  “He was nearly sixty, I think. He did everything he could to avoid his examination. Eventually, they talked him into going for his examination.  He still tried to fox them by getting drunk before the exam, but they passed him anyway.”

 “It might be interesting to see how many different ways you can find to fail, before anyone figures it out.”

 “I _can_ suddenly forget how to speak English.”

“That would work,” Jackson said.

“I _won’t_ give up the sea.  I’ll have to think of something. A way to remain Catholic, but also to remain in the Navy.” 

The ship’s drummer began to beat rapidly, and the boatswain’s calls began to shrill.  Both men jumped.   “We’re beating to quarters!” Jackson exclaimed, leaping to his feet.  

_“Andiamo!”_

Jackson found himself caught up in the hustle to quarters, racing up the ladder after Orsini.  People got out of Orsini’s way, and Jackson raced along in the lad’s wake up out of the darkness. 

By the time he reached the quarterdeck, he was passing bits of Ramage’s dismantled furniture on its way to the hold.  Ramage was standing on the quarterdeck, with Mr Southwick and Mr Kenton.  All three officers were gazing through their telescopes at something in the distance over the starboard side. 

Jackson took his station at the binnacle, where he could write down the actions of the ship on the slate.  His station in action now was to record, rather than to fight.  The midshipmen were converging on Kenton, bringing him reports, and Kenton turned to Ramage and reported that the ship was cleared for action.  Jackson saw Ramage turn to Kenton, and saw him acknowledge Jackson’s presence with his usual little nod.  Jackson returned it.

The distant sail was coming into sight now, like a tiny little tooth on the sea.  She had changed course as soon as she sighted the _Dido,_ and was now coming to meet the little convoy.  She was becoming clearer every minute. 

Ramage lowered his glass.  “Is the challenge bent on, Mr Bennett?”

“Yes, sir.  Bent on, and ready.” 

“Deck, there!” Blake’s voice pealed down from aloft.  “She’s flying Portuguese colours, sir!”

“Just the one frigate?” Southwick wondered aloud.  “Coming to challenge a ship of the line?” 

Ahead of the _Dido,_ the _Santa Catarina_ was taking in sail, dropping back to the _Dido’s_ protection.  The brigs were steering in toward the _Dido._   In a few minutes they had closed up on the ship of the line, like chicks around a mother hen. 

“Mr Kenton, I’ll have another reef taken out of the topsails,” Ramage ordered.   

“Aye aye, sir!”  Kenton began to call his orders, and the topmen streamed up the shrouds to the topsail yards, to let out the sails by an extra line of reefs.  The extra sail area would raise the ship’s speed, just enough to put her between her consorts and the stranger.  

“Deck there!” 

“Deck here!” Ramage bellowed. 

“Sails astern of the frigate!”  the distant voice from the masthead howled.  “At least  five sail, sir!”

“Our fleet?”  Kenton asked.  “Or a Cape convoy?” 

“We’re too far west for the Cape convoy,” Ramage said.  

“Seven sails!”  the masthead reported.  “Nine sails in sight!  Ten – Eleven!” 

Ramage ran the telescope shut. 

“Hoist the challenge, if you please,” he told Bennett.  The signal yeomen hauled on the line, their hands weaving over each other quick as a pair of jugglers.  The bundled flags flew skyward. 

“Deck there!  There’s a ship of the line following the frigate!  Might be the Bedford, sir!” 

“ _Might be_ the _Bedford_ _?_ ” Ramage demanded. “Or _is_ the _Bedford_ _?”_

There was a brief silence, and then Blake’s voice came down again.  “It is the _Bedford,_ sir!” 

Jackson cleared his throat.  “Sir,” he said.

Ramage turned his head, and met the grey eyes watching him under the straw hat. “Don’t even think of it,” he said, softly.  He turned his back on Jackson and looked back at the frigate. 

“Deck there!  Frigate hoisted a signal, sir!  It looks like our own signal back at us!”

Ramage could see the tiny flecks of flags fluttering from the frigate’s signal halliard.  He raised his telescope.  The wind was sending the signal flags straight out, sharp and clear.  The frigate was signalling back to her consorts what she was seeing: a ship of the line, escorting four merchantmen. 

“What is the point of hoisting our challenge back at us?” Kenton wondered. 

“She’s not signalling to us,” Ramage guessed.  “Wait for it.  If that's the _Bedford,_ she'll give her the correct reply.”

The Portuguese frigate was coming on nicely now, and he could see the flicker of a bone in her teeth.  She had the confidence of a small ship that knew she had _much_ bigger friends coming up right behind her. He was sure he recognised the cut of her sails. That was one of the Portuguese frigates that had come out with them from Lisbon.

She had been battered by the storm – some of her sails had been patched with darker canvas, giving her a rather piebald appearance.  Her signal came down, hauled smartly.  The _Bedford_ was still much too far away to read the _Dido’_ s signals, but the frigate could issue the recognition challenge for her. 

“Deck there!” Bennett pealed from aloft, again.  “Fifteen sails astern of the _Bedford_ _!”_  

“She’s signalling!” Southwick said.  “It’s the correct reply to the challenge, sir!” 

They were back in the fleet.  Ramage’s mother-hen duty was over.  He cast his eyes back to his little convoy, relieved to have brought them back to their own fleet safely.

“Mr Kenton,” Ramage said.  “The gunner is to draw the shot from the first twenty-one guns.  We’ll be firing a royal salute before very long!” 

* * *

 

The _Bedford_ was the only other British ship in the fleet.  The _Dido_ fell in astern of her, following in the other seventy-four’s wake, and Walker hoisted a signal summoning Ramage aboard.  Ramage was welcomed aboard the _Bedford_ with the usual Marine salute, the shrill scream of the bosun’s pipes, and sideboys.  Captain Walker met him on the gangway in person, all smiles. 

“Captain Ramage,” Walker said.  “Welcome to the _Bedford!"_

“I’ll be glad to, sir,” Ramage said, shaking Walker's hand. 

 Ramage was soon settled in the _Bedford_ ’s great cabin with a glass of wine.  In the privacy of the cabin, the official courtesies could be dropped.  Ramage could see the _Dido_ through the sternlights, sailing neatly in the _Bedford_ ’s wake, two cables astern.  Ramage’s little convoy had already slotted in with the rest of the Portuguese fleet.  His ducklings were no longer his concern.

 "You’re a sight for sore eyes!” Walker said. 

“So are you,” Ramage admitted.  “We thought we were the only British ship this side of Cape Verde!” 

 “Captain Moore must think we’ve both disappeared at sea. How did you fare in the storm?” 

 “Very well, sir.  And you?” 

 “We did well enough,” Walker said.  “The mains’l blew out, and one of my lads went for a wee paddle, but we managed to get him back, no worse for wear.  And I see you managed to pick up a wee convoy of your own?” 

 “We ran into them a few days after the storm,” Ramage said.   “And we saw off a couple of privateers.”

 “Privateers – out _here?”_ Walker didn’t look pleased.  “So close to Brazil?” 

 “They were after the Indiaman.  We sank one; the other got away.”  Ramage patted his despatch case.  “I’ve written up a report, in case I ran into Captain Moore.  But we’ve seen no hide nor hair of any other British ships, until today.”

 “Aye,” Walker nodded.  “I suspect all the rest are sailing to Cape Verde.” 

 The name was delightful in a Scottish accent.  “Where are _you_ bound?” Ramage asked. 

 “Salvador,” Walker said.  “His Highness changed his mind.  Royal prerogative, ye know.”

 So Orsini’s guess had been right! 

 “Lucky for us, we stayed in sight with the _Principe Real_ in the storm, or aye, _we’d_ have been for Cape Verde too.  I'll have to take you over to the _Principe Real_ and introduce you to the Prince. I've got to know him well these last few weeks. I'll even try to wangle a Christmas invitation for you, eh? Aye, and then a nice ceilidh to get your blood pumping!"

 "I accept, gladly."

 "You’re only the second British ship we’ve seen since the storm.”

 “Not the _Amethyst,_ by any chance?”  Ramage asked. 

 “No.  HMS _Lydia,_ just yesterday.” 

 “The _Lydia_ _?”_ Ramage burst out.  “Hornblower, by God!” 

 “You know the man?”

 “He, and I, and Captain Dawlish served together in the old _Superb,_ years ago,” Ramage said.    “He and I have been sailing past each other our whole careers!  I sail out of Sicily, and he sails in.  He sails out of Portsmouth, and I sail in.  We keep just missing each other.  And now I’ve missed him by _one day?_   I must write to his lady wife and tell her.”    

 “Pity I couldn’t keep him here,” Walker said.  “But he was sailing with sealed orders.  Regretted waving goodbye to such a grand little frigate, but, aye, orders are orders.” 

 “Yes, Horny will have pressed on,” Ramage said. 

 “Always in a hurry, that lad. Keen as mustard. Never you mind what people say about him."

 "I know exactly what people say about him," Ramage said. "And I take pains to tell people that it is a complete slander. He does not run about the deck in a state of nature! He just likes to bathe under the deck-wash pumps. He has very particular ideas about cleanliness, that's all!"

 "Blether like that can scupper the poor man’s career."

 Did Hornblower _know_ he was getting the wrong kind of reputation from his deck-wash bathing? Jack Dawlish had written to Hornblower and warned him never to take his clothes off for any reason whatsoever ever again, but Ramage thought that Hornblower didn’t care. If any officer in the Navy _was_ going to wander around getting a breeze on his bits, it _would_ be Horatio Hornblower. Even in the _Superb,_ Horny's messmates had got to see rather more of him than they really wanted.

 "Strange that you ran into him out here," Ramage said. "You're the second officer who knows him that I've met these last few weeks. Captain Croucher talked about him too."

 "Captain Croucher?"

 "I spoke to him at length, before we parted company. It seems he too is a friend of Hornblower's."

“Ah,” Walker said.  He stared at the wine in his glass.  “Aye, we spied your boat going across to the Hibernia.  We wondered if there was trouble a’brewing” 

 “I can set your mind at rest,” Ramage said.  “Before we parted company, I went to Croucher to ask for satisfaction –.”

 “No!”  Walker said.  He leaned forward, earnestly.  “No, Ramage, man! _Tell_ me you’re not going to fight a –.”

“I’ve _had_ my satisfaction!” Ramage said.  “I sat down with Croucher, and we talked. We had a lot to talk about, Walker! We compared notes, and a lot of things have come to light. Misunderstandings. Things that if we had both known ... well, a lot of unpleasantness could have been avoided."

 "Misunderstandings?"

 "I'm not at liberty to discuss them.  But the Rake and I came to an understanding.  The discord between us is finished." 

 “Finished?”  Walker stared at him.  And then his face lifted.  “Finished?”

 “We shook hands on the _Hibernia_ ’s quarterdeck."

"This feud has been going on between your family and Goddard's for decades, and now you say it's finished?"

"Goddard is on his own now.  Croucher and I parted on good terms.  And _that’s_ not scuttlebutt, because you’re hearing it from the horse’s mouth.”   

 “But how…”

 “Meddling by a third party,” Ramage said.  “And that’s all that I’ll say on the subject.  But the feud is over.  _Finis._ I never want to hear about it again. Neither does the Rake."

 “But that’s good news!”  Walker said.  “My God, man, that’s _great_ news!" Walker turned in his chair and bellowed at the door.  “Thomas! Come in here, you pie-eating fool.  Time to break out the _other_ whisky!  We’ve _news_ to celebrate!” 

   

  


	16. Jackson's secret

The fleet reunited made its way south.  The _Dido_ kept station astern of the _Bedford_ , to windward of the fleet.  The Portuguese warships took their stations, screening the all-important merchantmen.  They pushed south through the Atlantic. 

The sun was beginning to heat slowly.  The Equator would soon be upon them.  Soon, any tallow candles in the ship would soften beyond usefulness.  By that time, the deck would be so hot at noon that one’s shoes would stick to the pitch in the seams in the decks.  The awnings had been stretched over the upper deck, to grant some shade to the men on watch, but once in the tropics the deck would be so hot by noon that one’s shoes would stick to the pitch in the deck seams. The men would soon ask permission to sleep on the deck at night, escaping the stuffy ovens of the gun decks.  

 That afternoon, Ramage was on the poop deck, laying out the day’s duties to his officers.  He could have held this meeting in his cabin, but the cabin was already unbearably hot.  Besides, he had a theory that it did the men good to look up from their work, and realize that their officers had work of their own to do. 

A wooden ship needed an endless round of hard work, just to prevent her from falling apart.  Airing the ship’s spare canvas; gunnery practice; painting; rust-chipping; scrubbing; caulking; tarring; oiling.  There was always more work to do, in a wooden hull.  And that damned leak was still going, somewhere deep below the waterline.  They couldn’t do anything about it at sea, but the ship had to be pumped out for four hours a day, every day. 

Ramage glanced up at the sound of canvas slatting. 

The spanker sail above their heads filled briefly with a gust from the other tack, and the spanker boom briefly wanted to gybe.  The ship tried to curstsey before the wind, but before anyone could do anything, the gust died.  The sail fell empty again.  The boom thumped slackly against its gear, and lay inert as a felled tree. 

Southwick stared up at the spanker, and sniffed. 

Ramage knew that sniff.  “What’s your opinion of this wind, Mr Southwick?” 

“We’ll lose it altogether by dinnertime, sir.” 

“It’s going for a while, you think?” 

“Yes, sir.  We’re well into the Doldrums.” 

“We’re certainly in the right latitude,” Ramage agreed.  

A puff of air rolled toward them, and then canvas rumbled, and the ship advanced through the water a few yards.  Then, just as she began to make way, and the sound of the sea began to gurgle along her side, the canvas fell empty again, and she sagged to a stop.  The men at the wheel waited, while the ship rolled idly. 

The Portuguese ships looked like so many toy yachts on a pond, sagging this way and that, unable to make steerage way.  Sails filled, and then fell again.  The whole fleet was idling along like a flock of goats browsing on an Italian terrace – step, stop.  Step, stop.  Step, stop.   

 “How are we for water?”  Ramage asked. 

“Eight hogsheads are bad altogether, sir,” Southwick said.  “I suspect they’re the same ones that went bad last year, but I’d have to look at the numbers to be sure.” 

“Salvageable?”

“Undrinkable, sir.” 

“Damn.”

“I’ve kept it quiet, sir.” 

“Everyone will know from today,” Ramage decided.  “If we’re losing the wind, we’ll go on short rations.  I’ll make the announcement at noon.”  

“Aye aye, sir,” Kenton said, and added, “The women won’t like it, sir.” 

“The women don’t have to like it,” Ramage snapped.  “They’re half the reason we’re running short!  What are they doing with it all?”

“Bathing, sir.” 

“Are they?”  Ramage had a momentary mental image of the Portuguese women, bathing each other in the warm darkness of the lower decks.  His loins tightened quite suddenly.  "Well, that has to stop,” he said.  “There’s the daily ration, and that’s that.” 

“Aye aye, sir.” 

“I will pass the word, sir,” Orsini said.  He had been invited to the conference as Southwick’s deputy. 

“Very well.”  Ramage looked over at the Portuguese ships.  They were a fair distance away from the _Dido._   “Has anyone seen any sharks today?”

There were shaken heads around him.  “No, sir.” 

“Then we’ll put a sail over the side after exercises, and the men can have a swim.”  Gun drill was hot and sweaty work; the men would savour the chance of cooling off in the water.  “Mr Orsini, please ask the ladies to remain out of view of the starboard gangway while the men are swimming.” 

“Aye aye, sir.”

“As usual, the only officer exempted from swimming is the master.” 

“Oh, sir,” Southwick groaned, with mock despair. 

“Sir?” Loach looked astonished.  “Swim, sir?” 

“Every officer in the ship will swim,”  Ramage said. 

“Sir, may I be excused from swimming?” Loach coughed. 

"Why?" 

“I can’t swim, sir.”

“You can’t swim?”  Ramage looked at him, and frowned.  “How do you expect to lead your men into the water, if you can’t swim yourself?” 

“Er…” Loach frowned.  “Most ships don’t allow the men to swim …” 

“More fool them,” Ramage said.  “Swimming is a military skill, like any other.  I require all of my officers to be able to swim as an example to the lower deck.  If you go in, they'll go in.”

“It’s not hard, Joe,” Hill said to Loach.  “I’d like to volunteer to teach him, sir?”

“Good.  Mr Hill will teach Mr Loach to swim,”  Ramage said.  “Also, there will be _no_ repetition of last year’s incident.  The _only_ man permitted to dive from the captain’s stern gallery is the captain.  Is that clear?” 

“Aye, aye, sir.”  They were all grinning at Orsini, who had the grace to look embarrassed. 

“It won’t happen again, sir,” Orsini said. 

“I trust that it won’t,” Ramage said.  “Very well, gentlemen.  Anything else to see to?  No?  Very good, then we’re adjourned.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ramage went back up to the poop deck after his swim.  He wrung his long hair out like a wet towel, grateful that his skin was cool and wet.  The ship was still hot.  The sweat would start to prickle again in minutes, but with wet hair it was easy to convince himself that he was not _quite_ as hot as he had been before. 

The ship was quiet around him.  Her timbers barely creaked, as if the _Dido_ herself was half-asleep.  He could hear voices, but they sounded like happy voices.  The men were still over the side, paddling and splashing in the cool blue sea. 

He could hear voices on the quarterdeck below him: Jackson’s nasal twang, and Orsini’s melodious bass.  It was one of Jackson and Orsini’s Italian lessons in progress.  Ramage leaned on the rail, and listened. 

 “Where did you fight?” Orsini asked, in Italian. 

“In the southern theatre, mostly,” Jackson said.  “Cowpens, King’s Mountain, Yorktown.” 

It dawned on Ramage that Jackson was talking about his past.  Ramage had never heard him speak openly about his Revolution like that. He found himself listening.

 “You couldn't have been very old, then, then?” Orsini asked. 

“I was about your age, actually.  I was twenty when I signed up with the Continentals.  But I’d served in the British Army for about three years before that.”

“Do you ever regret it?”  Orsini asked. 

 Usually, questions like that made Jackson freeze up tighter than a Russian harbour, but he was talking to Orsini.  Perhaps speaking in Italian was forcing him to pick his words carefully.  Perhaps the privacy of Italian was loosening his reticence? 

 “Regret,” Jackson said, slowly.  “I regret some of the things I _did_.  Sometimes duty called me to do some _very_ dirty things.  But do I regret putting myself in the position to do them?  No.  I did what I was best fitted to do.  I believed in what I was doing.  Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  Liberty, equality, fraternity.  They were _worth_ fighting for.  They still are."  

"And yet here you are in the Royal Navy," Orsini said.  "Fighting for the British.  In spite of your principles?" 

"Not in spite of them," Jackson said.  _"Because_ of them.  There is nothing of the Revolution left in France now.  Liberty, equality, fraternity are all dead in France."

"You sound like that's a bad thing!" Orsini accused. 

"It _is_ a bad thing.  It's a tragedy.  The French jumped straight from tyranny to anarchy and back to tyranny, without even a look-in at democracy.  Bonaparte swallowed the Revolution."

"But even so," Orsini asked, "what has that to do with you?  He can't cross the Atlantic. He can't even cross the English Channel!  His expedition to Haiti proved that."

"Do you think he wouldn't make things horribly uncomfortable for us, if he controlled all of your side of the Atlantic?  He's opposed to everything the United States stands for.  He would strangle our trade until he ruled us, the way he rules Russia.  He doesn't want to rule France; he wants to rule the world..."  

Ramage shook himself, suddenly embarrassed.  He was eavesdropping.  It was fascinating to listen to Jackson, but eavesdropping was not gentlemanly conduct.  Ramage cleared his throat, and walked down the ladder. 

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, in Italian. 

“Good evening, captain!” Orsini greeted him. 

 “Your Italian is improving,” Ramage said to Jackson. 

“Thank you, _signore._ ”

"Together, we will turn Signor Jackson into a proper Tuscan,” Orsini promised.  He rubbed his hands together, and cast a proprietary eye up and down his pupil, like a sculptor gloating over his latest artwork. 

“You should be careful!” Ramage warned Jackson.  “That may mean he has a nice little Tuscan wife lined up for you.” 

“I wouldn't mind a nice little Tuscan wife,” Jackson said. 

“Ah _ha!_ ” Orsini declared.  “I will put my aunt to the challenge, _allora,_ she will find you one!” 

“Ask her to find him a _nice_ one,” Ramage said to Orsini.  “Our Signor Jackson deserves better than some hairy old widow from Siena!” 

“I will make sure of it,” Orsini promised.  "Only a nice Volterrani woman for Signor Jackson!" 

The ship’s bell chimed – _Ting-Ting!  Ting!_    

“By your leave, gentlemen,” Jackson said, bringing his hand to his hat.  “I’ve an appointment for whist on the orlop deck.” 

“Better you than me,” Ramage said. 

“Enjoy yourself,” Orsini said. 

Jackson went away.  Ramage leaned his elbow on the rail, and watched him go.

“His accent is improving,” Ramage said.  “Between you and me, and Alberto Rossi, he’s starting to lose that Teutonic intonation.  He just needs to learn to use his hands a little more.” 

 “He is not learning Italian from Rossi, Uncle.  He doesn't want to pick up a Genovese accent. _"_

“He’s a snob, is he?”  Ramage said, amused. 

“Can you blame him, Uncle?”  Orsini shrugged his shoulders.  “He wants to sound like a proper Tuscan gentleman.   He might not be an officer any more, but he still wants to sound like a gentleman."

"He's not an officer," Ramage said. 

"He is not an officer now," Orsini said.  "But he is still a gentleman.  And Signor Loach is never a gentleman, but he is an officer now.  They have travelled in opposite directions!  Allora, they can wave at each other as they pass!" 

Orsini had not noticed the expression on Ramage's face. 

"But, as they say in English, 'Aft the most honour, but forrard the better men.'  _Che_ _bello._ I like that expression.  I think that is a fine motto for my career, do you not think so, Uncle?  I can still be a gentleman, without being an officer, if Signor Loach can do the opposite?” 

“What on earth makes you think Jackson is an officer?”  he asked. 

“He told me himself,” Orsini said.  “An Army officer, he said.  But he told me it was a secret.  He said he doesn't have a commission any more.” 

“I see,” Ramage said. 

“Rossi and Stafford know as well, but I don’t think Jackson knows that _they_ know.  They know he doesn’t know, but they don’t know he knows _I_ know.”

“I see.” Ramage was getting confused by who knew what. 

“We Italians,” Orsini added, conspiratorially, “ _we_ know how to keep a secret.”  Orsini made a little mime of tapping the side of his nose. 

“Yes,” Ramage said.  “You certainly do.” 

“I bet _you_ didn’t even know that I knew!”  Orsini said. 

“Yes, it’s certainly come as a bit of a surprise,” Ramage agreed. 

“How long have you known about this?”

“Since we took the _Passe Partout_ into Gibraltar,” Orsini said.  “I suppose he told you at the Torre di Buranaccio?  You’ve known him for ever …” 

That had been a year or two before Trafalgar, Ramage remembered. 

He wondered if he should tell Paolo that he had been pranked.  He was very familiar with Jackson’s sense of humour.  Jackson had a dead-pan humour that took a lot of people by surprise. 

Jackson and Mr Aitken had once nipped back to the Calypso on their shore leave and planted a rumour that the Captain was going to convert the _Calypso_ to the new French metric system, forthwith.  Ramage had come back to the _Calypso_  to find his ship in an uproar,  Southwick close to tears, and the two culprits long gone. 

Ramage could just imagine Jackson waiting smugly for this prank to be discovered … and waiting … and waiting … and waiting … 

“I am going to wring his neck,” Ramage promised. "I'm going to take away his copy of _Common Sense,_ and make him eat it..." 

“Uncle?” Orsini asked. 

“Jackson is not an officer, Paolo,” Ramage said.  “He’s a rating.”

“Of course he _is_ a rating,” Orsini said, nodding blithely.  He tapped the side of his nose again, theatrically. "We Italians know how to keep secrets." 

Ramage sighed.  “Never mind,” he said. "Good day, Paolo."

"Good day to you, Uncle," Paolo said.

Ramage went back down to his cabin.  He took off his coat and slung it on the back of his chair, and loosened his neck-cloth. 

He was going to have to congratulate Jackson on a prank well done.  This one had been brewing for a really long time.  The _Passe Partout_ business had been years ago.

And apparently Stafford and Rossi believed in it, too. 

Well, that wasn't surprising at all.  Stafford and Rossi weren't educated men.  It would be natural enough for them to believe that any man who voluntarily read the Morning Post must be an officer. 

And Jackson did carry himself with a natural authority.  He walked with the bearing of a man who expected to be respected.  He spoke with a tone that demanded to be heard. 

In Ramage's mission ashore to Tuscany, he had taken Jackson along _because_ of his officerly bearing; he remembered thinking that Jackson would easily pass for a retired admiral.  

And that one time on Culebra Island, where Jackson had mimicked the bearing of an officer so well that all the sailors had fallen around laughing... 

And that other time when Jackson had countermanded Ramage's orders to return to the Calypso, and ended up coming to Ramage's rescue when Ramage's plan fell apart. 

And on Culebra Island, when Jackson had subtly taken over Ramage's night expedition.  Ramage remembered feeling annoyed that Jackson had arranged the whole mission to his own liking, as if he really had been an Army officer stepping in to command the Marines.  Even the Marines took Jackson's orders, as if Jackson really had been an Army officer. 

As if Jackson really had been an Army officer...

Oh, God.  Ramage felt dizzy.  He reached out for the settee, and sat down.

Jackson really had been an Army officer!  He _must_ be!  How the hell had Ramage not seen it before? 

Ramage squeezed his eyes shut.  Jackson could not be an officer.  He was a rating, that was all.  He was charismatic but he was only a seaman. 

Seamen didn't get themselves arrested on purpose so that they could interfere with a court-martial, as Jackson had. Seamen didn't break up mutinies on the lower deck all by themselves, expecting the officers to fall in line with his plans.  Except that seamen did not take themselves ashore on missions of their own.  Seamen did not take command of prize ships, as Jackson did.  Seamen didn't sail out on their own to contact Admiral Lord Nelson on their own.  Seamen didn't countermand orders.  And they certainly didn't console lonely lieutenants, as Jackson had that very first night on the beach outside the Torre di Buranaccio. 

 _Jackson_ did all those things, but Ramage had not seen the truth.  He'd used Jackson almost as if he was a spare lieutenant, and yet somehow he had not seen the truth!  Jackson really had been an officer! 

But why? 

Ramage opened his eyes. 

Why?   What was an American Army officer doing here? Why on earth would he be living incognito on the lower deck of a British warship?  He had joined the Navy in Toulon, joining the _Sibella_ frigate just before Ramage himself.  Why hadn't he told the _Sibella's_ captain who he was? 

For that matter, why hadn't he told Ramage who he was?  What secrets were Jackson hiding? 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	17. In the Doldrums

 Ramage crossed to the rail.  He could feel the light stroke his cheek as he walked under a gap in the awning.  It was no cooler on deck than it had been in his cabin.  His skin felt sticky and itchy inside his uniform. 

The _Dido_ floated in perfect balance, like a model ship pinned to a putty diorama.  She seemed silent, as if she was holding her breath, without the constant creaking of her timbers working, and the sound of breeze in the rigging, and the gurgle of water alongside.  The sun baked down on the decks. 

The only creature moving was a shark, tirelessly circling the _Dido._ Swimming was over.  There was no more relief from the heat by diving over the side. 

The _Bedford_ was a few cables away, looking just as depressed with her sails hanging.  The other ships were also standing still.  The fleet had not moved all day.  

Without wind, water would become a problem very soon.  The _Dido_ was carrying a hundred souls more than she was stocked to support, and without those extra tons of water that had spoiled … Yes, water would become a problem very soon.   They needed wind. There was no telling how long they might sit here without wind – hours, days, weeks.  There was no telling how thinly they might have to reduce their water rations. 

Ramage put his hands behind his back, and cleared his throat.  He paced slowly along the windward side of the deck behind the guns.  There was a narrow strip here where a man could walk without having to sidestep, particularly if that man was the most senior in the ship.  He paced up, turned at the foot of the poop ladder, and paced back.  He could feel the silence in the ship.  He could feel the eyes upon him.  The _Dido_ felt as if she was waiting for something that Ramage could not give.  He could not make the wind return.  He could not summon more water from the air. 

“Sir!  Sir!  Sir!”  A wail broke into Ramage's gloomy thoughts. 

Midshipman Dawlish was running aft to Hill and Southwick.  His distress was evident on his face – he looked like a frightened child again.  “It’s the Portuguese, sir!  The _Alfonso_ , sir!”

“What’s wrong, Mr Dawlish?” Ramage called across the deck. 

“Oh, sir!  It’s terrible!  The Porries are throwing cats overboard!”

“Cats?”  Ramage said, blankly.  He met Southwick’s eyes.  The old man looked as puzzled as Ramage did. 

“This, I have to see for myself,” Ramage said.  “My glass, please!” 

He took the glass from Midshipman Blake and strode forward.  He was aware of his entourage behind him – and of Dom Rodrigo hurrying ahead of him.  He crossed the gangway to the fo’c’sle.  The Dido's bows were already crowded with a press of bodies –  Didos, Frenchmen and Portuguese passengers crowding the rail to stare at the _Alfonso._ Whatever was going on had attracted _everyone’_ s attention. 

“Make a hole!” Ramage barked at the men who had not yet noticed their captain coming up behind them, and they recognised his voice.  They jostled up against each other to clear the captain a channel between them to the rail.  He came to a stop next to the foremost carronade.  “What’s going on here?”

“There, sir!” someone pointed.  “The _Alfonso,_ sir!  They’re throwing kittens over the side!” 

“They’re _what?”_

The _Afonso de Albuquerque_ was still facing the Dido, across a few cables of glossy swells.  Her sails hung like bedsheets, but some eddy had turned her slightly, so that she was presenting her starboard bow to the Dido.  There was a cluster of dresses on her sides.  

“There goes another one!” the nearest sailor said, horrified.  He was pressing his thumb and two fingers to his eye, in an attempt to make a finger-telescope _._  “The poor beasties!” 

Ramage extended the barrel of the telescope and lifted it to his eye.  He found the _Afonso’s_ side, and saw the cluster of women along her rail.  As he watched one of the women tossed something into the sea.  He followed its trajectory down to the glossy water and looked at it floating there.   

There was a horrified groan around him.  “The poor wee kitties!” 

“What kind o’ people _are_ these fuckin’ Porries?” the nearest sailor growled. 

“I _beg_ your pardon?” Dom Rodrigo’s voice broke in, sounding offended.  “We do not make a sport of drowning cats in my country!”  He added something in Portuguese, which instantly raised a chorus of disclaimers from the other Portuguese. 

Ramage turned the focus ring of the telescope.  The cat in the water was a dark golden colour, against the blue-black of the sea.  It didn’t seem to be trying to save itself.  It wasn’t moving at all. 

Another cat floated down, and landed lightly in the water.  It didn’t move either, just floated there.  He wasn’t an expert on cats, but couldn’t they swim, if they had to?  He followed the cat’s trajectory back up to the Afonso’s side, and took a closer look at the women standing there.  It took him a long,  disbelieving second to understand what he was seeing, just before a third 'cat' made its slow fall down to land in the sea.  “Oh, I say!” 

He heard Hill give a snort of laughter.  “There – there – look!”  Hill called.  “There goes another one!  Ha-ha, that’s _brilliant!”_  

 “’S’not funny,” someone muttered.  “Drowning cats like that, s’not funny.” 

Ramage lowered his telescope.  He had seen enough, and he did not want to see it again.  “The Portuguese are not throwing cats overboard!”

“They are,” Bancroft, the sailor who had been trying to peer through his fingers said.  “We can see ‘em.” 

“Is bad luck to have a cat fall overboard!” Rossi said.  He thrust out his arm with the sign of the horns.  _“Ti!”_ he hissed at the evil the _Alfonso_ was bringing them.

“Yeah!” Bancroft echoed.  He thrust out his arm with the same gesture.  _“Tea!  Tea!”_ A moment later Ramage was surrounded by dozens of sailors sending the sign of the horns towards the _Alfonso_.  _“TEA!  TEA!  TEA!”_

At any moment, someone in the _Afonso de Albuquerque_ would look over, and see a mob of Englishmen making outrageous gestures towards the Crown Princess.  _“That’s enough!”_ Ramage roared. 

There was an instant silence around him. 

“The next man I see doing that will get four hours at the pumps!”  Ramage bellowed.  “The Portuguese are _not_ drowning cats!” 

“But sir, we c’n see ‘em!” Bancroft bleated. 

There was only one way to put an end to this.  “Able Seaman Bancroft.”  Ramage held out his glass.  “Here!  Take a look at your _cats.”_

“Sir?” the man’s eyes boggled out.  He immediately jerked both hands back toward himself as if the telescope was hot. 

“Take a good look.  Please pay special attention to the ladies on the quarterdeck, if you’d be so kind.  And then tell us what you see.” 

Bancroft took the telescope with both hands as if it was made of spun sugar, and Ramage realized he had never held one before.  He lifted the lens to his eye, scrunching up his eyes as if he thought looking through a telescope was going to sting.  Ramage saw the surprise on his face when he realized how sharp an officer's-eye-view really was.  It took him a few seconds to figure out how to aim the long barrel at the _Afonso de Albuquerque_.  Ramage waited. 

“Wotcher see, Willie?”  someone whispered. 

Ramage could see the moment at which Bancroft realized what he was seeing, because the end of the telescope wobbled out of line.  “Oh!” Bancroft said.  “They’re _bald!”_

“Louder, if you please,”  Ramage insisted. 

“The ladies are all bald!” Bancroft shouted.  “I c’n see them from here, lads!  The ladies have no hair left!  They’re throwing their hair overboard!”

“ _What?_ ” Dom Rodrigo sounded horrified.  He looked as if he wanted to snatch the Englishmen’s telescopes out of their hands.  He immediately translated Ramage’s words for the Portuguese, and there was a sudden outcry of sympathy. 

Bancroft lowered the glass from his eye, looking down at it with amazement, and offered it back to Ramage with both hands.  Ramage took back the glass, ran the tubes closed, and put it under his arm.  He did not want another look at the _Afonso de Albuquerque_.  A lady’s hair was part of her beauty.  He did not want to see their humiliation again. 

“Ladies of distinction,” mourned Dom Rodrigo, “nurtured from birth in the lap of comfort!  Females of noble station, suffering such privation at sea, cast adrift in a hostile sea, far from the comforts due to their gentleness and rank!"   He clasped his hands under his chest, and rolled his eyes to the sky. 

Ramage heard someone mutter, “Eh, the Marcheezer managed all right!” but Dom Rodrigo didn’t notice.    

"They're shaving off their hair," Ramage said.  "And disposing of it over the side." 

“Why are they doing that?”  someone asked. 

“Well, why does _anyone_ shave off all their hair?” Ramage demanded. "Let me give you a clue.  They're small, they're itchy, and we don't have any in the _Dido."_

“Lice infestation,” Southwick agreed.  He had arrived at last, and was looking through the signals telescope.  “Probably not the only one with lice today.” 

Those ships had to be like floating ovens, Ramage thought.  The sun was baking down on their decks.  And they were crowded, Dom Rodrigo had said; people packed into every square foot of deck.  He itched just thinking of it.

“A month at sea in an overcrowded ship, with no privacy, and not enough water to wash,” Ramage said, “and so the lice have multiplied, and multiplied, and multiplied.” 

“And they’re _ladies!”_ Bancroft said.  “Real ‘igh-born ladies!  Ladies wivart any hair!”  

There was a general sigh of sympathy. 

Sailors were like children, Ramage reminded himself.  They lived without responsibility, without introspection, and without any thought about the future.  Their whole lives, every day, was mapped out for them by the Navy. 

“I think that was the last of them,” Martin said, watching through his own telescope.  “They’re going back below, by the looks of it.”

“Well,” Ramage announced.  “The show’s over.  Back to work, lads.  It’s a long time till dinnertime!” 


	18. Christmas at sea

 

Ramage sat down in the sternsheets of his boat with a groan.  

“Shove off!” Stafford ordered, and the boat swung sideways away from the _Bedford_ ’s side.  

“That was the worst Christmas party of my life,” Ramage grumbled.  He tried to pluck his shirt away from his sweaty body. 

“Really?” Orsini said, sleepily, fanning himself with his hat.  He was wearing the ornate Volterrani uniform again. “I didn’t think it was that bad.” 

 _“You_ speak Portuguese,” Ramage said. 

It had been a long, hot, _irritating_ afternoon.  Ramage supposed he should feel honoured to be invited to a royal Christmas, but all he felt was irritated.  _So_ irritated, that he felt a shiver of rage in him, that he restrained because he had nothing to throw in the small boat.

The Portuguese Christmas had been as long and dour as Ramage expected it would be.  The Englishmen had been presented to the Prince Regent again, and then introduced to a procession of Portuguese strangers, and then the Prince had led his guests on deck to hear Mass. Over a thousand people had packed themselves onto the upper decks of the _Principe Real_ to hear a Latin Mass that droned on, and on, and on. Too much Latin, and far too much incense, and wasn’t it just bloody typical of the Portuguese to bring incense to sea, and forget to pack the potable water? 

After the service the royal party filed below to the great cabin for a traditional Portuguese Christmas dinner.   The conversation was sombre, the food was spicy, and Ramage had sweated in the stuffy cabin under the weight of his best coat, the Lloyd’s presentation sword and his formal decorations, forcing the roast down with too much wine, which was refilled too quickly by an Portuguese servant who did not understand him when he said _no, no more, no, thank you._

Walker had rescued them at the close of the dinner.  Or Ramage had thought at the time. He had ended up dragged to the Bedford for a traditional Scottish Christmas, which involved strong spirits.  Lots of strong spirits.  Walker’s officers had toasted each other over and over again, downing bumper after bumper of Scotch whisky, and porter, and neat rum, cheering and thumping their hands on the table top.  Ramage had tried his damnedest to minimise the amount he was drinking at each toast, but he couldn't not toast at all without causing offense to his hosts.  They'd toasted the King, the Portuguese Prince, the Portuguese Queen, the Marchesa di Volterra, and then every individual they could think of.   

“Why don’t you stop off in the _Bedford_ , laddie, and we’ll treat you to a ceilidh that will get your blood quickening!”  Ramage recited aloud. 

“Sir?” Orsini asked. 

“Bloody Scots!” Ramage snapped.  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a British warship drunk like that!”    

“I ‘ave,” Stafford said, over Ramage’s head. 

“Not in any of _my_ ships, you haven’t!” 

"More's the pity," Stafford hiccuped. 

Ramage had _never_ tolerated that level of debauchery in any of his commands _._ He had heard of ships whose captains tolerated a far more liberal use of rum than he did, but he didn't agree with it.  The Didos could have a double tot to celebrate their Christmas, but that was _it._   Ramage commanded a British warship, not a pirate! The entire ship's company of the _Bedford_ had been _staggering_ drunk.  _  
_

And Ramage had been obliged by politeness to match the _Bedford's_ captain toast for toast!  He had taken only a small sip of each glass, but he could feel the fumes of the whisky rising behind his eyeballs.   He was sweating like a sot inside his uniform.  He pulled his neckcloth loose with his index finger, and only succeeded in pulling it tighter, like a noose.  He swore, and ripped at it furiously with both hands until it came loose.  He threw it overboard. 

“Is this what you are like when you are drunk?” Orsini asked the inside of his hat, curiously.  “You are a grumpy drunk.” 

 _"Shut up!”_ Ramage shouted at him.  He was being unreasonable, and he knew it, and he needed to justify his anger, which made him even more angry. 

“Oh, it is fine,” Orsini warbled,  “because I am speaking in Italian.  English is for the sailors, but sailors don’t understand Italian.  Do you, Rossi?” 

“I comprehend nothing, _Signore,_ ” Rossi agreed.   

Ramage glared at him, certain that he was being mocked, but for the moment he could not see a flaw in Rossi’s logic.  

“Boat ahoy!” 

“Eh, here’s the ship!” Orsini looked up out of his hat.  He sounded surprised to have found the _Dido_ again.  The ship was looming close overhead. 

Stafford stood up, tiller in his hand.  He bellowed the ship’s name, _“Calypso!”_ so the crew knew their captain was coming back.  The men tossed their oars so that they wouldn’t snap against the _Dido_ ’s side.  The bowman hooked on clumsily, slamming the bow  against the bilge. 

Ramage stood up, and found that the ship was moving violently.  He made it across to the _Dido'_ s side, shoes slipping on the battens, and eventually heaved his way through the break in the bulwark. 

The Marines presented arms.  The boatswains pipes screamed around him.  Mr Kenton was standing at the end of the row of sideboys, his hand at his hat. 

Ramage blinked around him.  Something was different.  He could still hear music.  For a moment he thought he could still hear those flaming bagpipes, all the way from the _Bedford,_ but then he realized that the sound was coming from below.  Someone was playing a highland reel.  

Kenton was still saluting, and Ramage remembered suddenly that he was supposed to return the salute.  "Mr Kenton?"  

“Welcome back, sir,” Kenton said.  Kenton was grinning hugely; a huge gawping grin.   “The wardroom would like to hinvite you both to drink a toads to the season, sir!  Lots of toads!” 

He reached out behind him, and held onto the rail that led around the gangway.  

“Are you dwunk?” Ramage demanded.  

“Yessir!” Kenton answered, and grinned.  “Aren’t you?” 

Ramage turned to the nearest Marine.  “Sergeant Hawwis!”  he barked.  “Take Mr Kenton to his quarters!  He is relieved from duty until he’s sobered up!”

“Aye aye, sir!”  Harris said. 

“Mr Orsini!  Go find Mr Hill!  He’s to take over Mr Kenton’s duties in the intewim – in the interir – in the _meantime!”_

 “But sir!” Kenton wailed in despair.  "It's Christmas!" 

“Er,” Harris frowned, worried.  “Sir, Mr Hill is … not in a state of dutyness either, sir.  It's Christmas, sir.” 

“My God!” Ramage stared at Kenton, who had sagged down to sit on the deck.   “In that case, find the _next_ officer who isn’t drunk, and tell him _he’s_ on watch!” 

“I think that’s Mr Jackson, sir.” 

There was a moment of white-hot silence, into which Kenton said, "Uh-oh..." 

Ramage inhaled, filling his lungs with rage.  _“Mr Jackson is not an officer in this ship! Never has been!  And never will be!”_  

“The Doctor’s sober, sir?" Harris suggested.  "The Doctor is always sober.  Should I tell him to come on watch, sir?"  

“Christ,” Ramage said.  

 He clutched the rail next to Kenton, and stared down into the writhing mass of people on the gundeck. He saw Martin and Rossi, playing the flute and the bagpipes, and people were dancing between the guns.  There were people capering drunkenly on the fo’c’sle.  The whole ship from stem to stern was one giant Christmas party. 

Ramage thought about ordering the Marines to lock up the spirit room, and go through the decks confiscating all the alcohol – and then he looked at Sergeant Harris.  Even Harris was swaying.  There was nothing he could do now, but let the party wind down.  He was no longer in control. 

“Harris,” Ramage said. 

“Sir?” 

“Find out which of your men is teetotal, and set them to guard the hanging magazines.  And go through the decks and confiscate any lights.”

“Already done, sir,” Harris said.  

“Everything's been taken care of!"  Kenton agreed, cheerfully.  “We're not going anywhere!  What's the worst that can happen?” 

 _“Chwist Almighty!”_ Ramage roared, and then realized that if he shouted any more he was going to throw up. 

He staggered off in search of his own cabin.  The Portuguese wine and the Scotch whisky was rolling in his stomach, and his ears were buzzing. 

Southwick was sitting on the deck with his back against the binnacle, fast asleep.  He was cradling the ship’s log under his folded arms like a stuffed toy.  Little Dawlish was fast asleep with his head pillowed on the master's lap.  Ramage stepped carefully over Southwick’s extended legs, and nodded at the helmsmen who were lolling against the motionless wheel. 

His Marine sentry made an attempt to pick up his musket as he passed.  “Afternoon, sir!” the Marine said, breathing out a gust of rum. 

“Merry Christmas,” Ramage said, blenching away from the man’s breath.  He opened his cabin door and wobbled in.  It took a deliberate effort to ensure that the cabin door latched closed.  

The cabin was empty – of course it was empty, the captain was the only man allowed in it, _he_ was the captain, and he wasn’t in it.

“A seventy-four is a damned big ship,” he told himself, angrily.  

He was too hot for this coat.  He pulled it off his shoulders, and dropped it on the deck, and undid the top buttons of his shirt.  The ship was rolling too wildly to unbuckle his shoes, so he leaned against the  back of the armchair and levered each shoe off with the toe of the opposite foot.  He would make black marks on the backs of his stockings, which would irritate Silkin, but right now to hell with Silkin.  

“That’s better,” he grumbled. He stumbled across the cabin, grappling with the chairs as he went.  He reached the stern gallery. 

The sea looked refreshing and cool.  He wanted to dive in, but stopped himself.  That shark was still down there, still circling the ship. 

The Admiralty in its wisdom had given him a whole seventy-four to sit on, so he would.  He sat down on the scrubbed deck planks with his back against the outside of the stern, his legs extended in front of him. He should just sit here, and enjoy the view.  

Ramage was woken by the sound of someone coming out onto the stern gallery. 

His neck twanged. He sucked in his thick lips, and raised his head, blinking.  He was sitting in the dark.  “Silkin?” he grumbled. 

“No,” Jackson’s voice said, from the dark.  

Ramage turned around.  “Jackson!” 

Jackson walked over to Ramage, and stood over him.  His whipcord figure was silhouetted against the deep purple of the sky.

“I didn’t hear the sentry let you in.”

“Your sentry is not in any condition to keep anyone out.” 

 “I thought you’d be fowward, joining the party,” Ramage said. 

"I did," Jackson said.  "They've all reached the tiresome part now.  It's winding down."  Jackson let himself down to the planking with a groan.  Ramage could smell the rum on his breath. 

"Thank God we're at sea," Ramage grumbled.  

"Nobody is going to attack Trenton _this_ Christmas," Jackson said.  "There's not a breath of wind." 

"Trenton?"

"During the Revolution.  General Washington attacked Trenton the day after Christmas, counting on the Germans there all being drunk.  They were, and he won."

"I suppose you commanded there," Ramage grumbled, reminded that Jackson had fought on the opposite side in that war; that he had been an officer in that war.

"No, I fought in the south.  Cowpens, Yorktown, all in the south."

"But you commanded troops." 

Jackson went still; frozen solid.  "I never commanded troops.  What makes you think that?"

"You did command troops.  You were an officer.  Admit it!"

"I never commanded troops."

"Why won't you admit it?"

“Where did you hear that?” 

“It doesn’t matter where I heard it!” Ramage said.  “Because it’s the truth!  You are an Army officer!” 

“No, I am not.”

“You were,” Ramage said.  "Why won't you admit it?"  

“It’s none of your business.”  Jackson stood up.

Ramage stood up to match him.  “I'm making it my business!  I’ve known you for over a decade!  Don’t you think that’s long enough to _make_ your business my business?”

“It’s certainly long enough for you to poke your nose into my business whether I like it or not!”  There was no light in Jackson’s expression.  His face was quite cold.  Ramage had seen that coldness before, but it had never been aimed at himself.  Jackson, like Ramage, did not raise his voice when he grew angry; he lowered it, into an icy snap. 

“For God’s sake, man!” Ramage snapped. He reached out and shoved Jackson by the chest.    “I’ve known you since the Torre di Buranaccio!  You were at my _wedding_ , for God’s sake!  Isn't that long enough to consider a man a friend?” 

“I have nothing to say,” Jackson said, backing away from him.  “I’m leaving.” 

“No, you stay here!” 

“Is that an order? 

“Why do I have to make it an order?” 

“Then I choose to leave!” Jackson snapped.  

“No!  You stay here, damn you!”  He reached out and grabbed Jackson’s shoulder, jerking him around. "I want to know the truth!"

“Take your hand off me!”  Jackson threw his hand off, but whirled back to face him.  The anger was hard and fierce on his face.  One raised index finger warned Ramage to keep his distance.  "You are getting far too familiar with me, my boy!" 

"Since when is familiarity a problem between men of the same rank?  Are we _equals?_   What was your real rank?  Why didn’t you tell me?  Why is it that the whole damn ship seems to know about this, except _me_ _?”_

 _“You?”_   Jackson barked.  “Of _all_ the people in this ship _you_ are  …!” 

Jackson clamped his teeth shut. 

Ramage spun around to see what had startled Jackson.  The cabin door was open, and Silkin was standing there, looking at them both, uncertainly. 

“Sir, did you call for ...?”  Silkin’s eyes ranged between Ramage and Jackson, standing braced at each other.  “Oh, I beg your pardon.” 

 ** _“GET OUT!”_ ** Ramage shouted in a fury. 

Silkin reversed so fast it looked as if he had a muscle spasm.  The door slammed. 

When he looked back at Jackson, he could see that Jackson had regained his composure.  He was breathing hard through his nose, his lips pinched shut, but his eyes were cold again. 

"I don't appreciate being lied to," Ramage hissed. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I mean.  You’ve been lying to me for a decade."

“I have _never_ lied to you!” Jackson hissed.

“You’ve never told me the truth either!  You were with me at the Torre di Buranaccio!  You were at my _wedding,_ for fuck’s sake!  And now I find out I don’t even know your real name!”

His last words made Jackson twitch.  “Of course you know my real name!” 

“I don't believe you.  Who _are_ you, Jackson?  Who’s the real Thomas Jackson?  Officer?  Gentleman?  Liar?  You’ve been lying since the day I met you.  Lies, and lies, and lies."  

“My past is my business,” Jackson hissed, digging his index finger at his chest. 

Ramage hit his fist aside, angrily.  “You _made_ your past my business!  You asked me to keep your name out of my despatches.  You lied through me.  I’ve been _helping_ you lie.  You must think I’m the biggest fool ever to sail the seven seas!” 

And there it was, Ramage realized.  Recognising his own humiliation stirred him to rage. His pain shivered through him, suddenly, in a cold gust.  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up like a wave, like the hand of a feverish goddess stroking his skin.  

His last words made Jackson twitch.   “I’m not listening to this!”  Jackson said.  “I’m leaving!” 

“Oh, yes, fantastic choice!  Run away!  It's what you're good at!” 

He saw the jerk of the muscles of Jackson’s face, and knew with a nauseating sense of victory that he had struck the most painful damage he possibly could.  

_**BANG.** _

Ramage reeled back, his vision flashing.  He collided with something behind him, and clutched it before he could fall. 

He blinked to clear his eyes, shaking his head, disbelieving and furious that Jackson had _really_ hit him in the face,  and had really  _meant_ it.

Jackson was looking back at him with a surprised expression, as if even he hadn't seen the punch coming. 

 _"You bastard!"_ Ramage sprang forward.  His knuckles slammed into Jackson's mouth with a sudden hot jolt of pain. 

Jackson’s head snapped back, and Ramage followed him with his fists.  He slammed his fists into Jackson’s flank, battered at his face. 

Jackson put his shoulder up, tried to batter back with his own fists. But Ramage had the weight, and the height.   He followed Jackson,  and Jackson was backed into the dining table, encumbered by chairs.  Jackson was tough, but he was outclassed, he was beaten – which was _usually_ when Jackson started fighting dirty... 

Ramage jerked back just in time.  The pain exploded into his thigh – but it was just pain, not the planetary explosion that Jackson had intended.  He tottered back, pressing both hands into his inner thigh. 

Jackson’s teeth were bared in a snarl.  “Want some more?” he hissed.  

“All right, you Yankee prick!  Now I’m going to _**hurt**_ you!"

His attack took Jackson by surprise, and the older man crashed over onto the deck, crashing through the furniture.  Ramage followed him down and over, smashing his right into Jackson’s face.  On his back, Jackson battered up at him with fists and with his knees.  Ramage found purchase on Jackson’s throat, and tightened his fingers. 

 _Bastard, bastard, bastard…_   He could see Jackson through a red rising tide of rage.  Inside his mind, he was quite still, and quite coldly rational.  He wanted to do what he was doing, and he did not care about the cost.  Jackson’s fist was slamming into his face, his eyes, his nose, his lips. 

A voice rang in his ears.  A red sleeve dashed in front of his vision, and tightened around his throat, and suddenly he was being lifted bodily off his enemy.  He heard shouting, felt hands ripping at his shoulders.  Jackson was out of his reach, and Ramage was dragged up and back and out of reach.  He flailed with both arms to get free. 

 _“I’ll kill you!”_ he roared. 

 _“Let me at him!”_ Jackson bellowed.  Jackson was purple with rage.  He was lunging for Ramage, but there were other arms dragging at him, pulling them apart.  Ramage thrashed to get back to his fury, fought to fight.    

 “Get him out of here!”  Southwick shouted between them.  “Before they kill each other!” 

 Jackson was being dragged away, protesting, thrashing, but he was out of Ramage’s sight.  Ramage was able to twist out of the Marine’s arms, but Southwick was in his way. 

“Get out of my way!” Ramage shouted into the old man’s face, but Southwick didn’t bother replying.  He just grabbed Ramage’s chest, pushing him onto the deck, and then _sat_ on him.    

Ramage wheezed as all the air was driven out of his lungs.  He thrashed and kicked, but he couldn’t even turn over.  Southwick was _heavy_.    

“That’s enough,” Southwick growled. 

_“Get off me!”_

“You’re both drunk, and you don’t know what you’re doing.  And you’re going to settle down.  Settle down, now.  Settle down. Don’t make me call the surgeon, now.  Settle down …”

Ramage realized he was gasping through gritted teeth.  Southwick was heavy, and he was sitting on Ramage’s back.  Ramage’s face was hot with sweat, and his muscles hurt as if he’d been ridden over by a carriage.  

"I'm all right," he gasped. 

“Are you done?"

“Yes!” 

“Can I let you go?”

“Yes,” Ramage said.  "Get off me!  I can't breathe."  

Southwick’s weight went away.  He rolled himself over onto his back, gasping for breath. 

“What the hell just happened – _sir._ ” 

Ramage pulled himself up to hands and knees, but had to grab the nearest eighteen-pounder for support before he could stand.  The cabin was turning, swirling sickeningly.  He touched the side of his face, and was surprised that there was no blood.  He looked up at Southwick.  

Southwick’s face was red, and his eyes were pebbles.  Ramage had seen that expression before, aimed at misbehaving seamen, or looming down on Midshipman Orsini before his fury broke on the boy’s head.  

“We had a fight,” Ramage said.  He looked at his hands.  His fingers were trembling with shock.  He had nearly killed Jackson.  He had been in a drunken fury – he had gone berserk.  "I nearly killed him."  

"Listen to me," Southwick said.  "You're both drunk.  You don't know what you're doing.  You didn't have a fight." 

They were wobbling on a precipice, and both of them knew it. The Articles of War stood between them like a lethal Rubicon that could not be crossed.  Ramage was captain, and Jackson was not, and the Articles of War were a sharp edge over which they could not step.  They could not fight; they were not equals, in the eyes of the Articles of War.  Neither of them could say what he wanted to say, or they risked a catastrophe. 

"You're right," Ramage agreed.  “I fell, and bumped my forehead."

"You didn't have a fight." 

Ramage clenched his fists, tightly.  “I fell.  We were … we were helping each other up again.  I slipped.”

“Is _that_ what I saw?”  Southwick asked. 

“That’s what happened,” Ramage said. The Marine was still there, still watching.  Ramage held onto the lashings of the eighteen pounder for support, and stared at him.  "Did you hear that?   The captain and his clerk suffered a fall.  A fall.” 

“Aye aye, sir,” the Marine said, coming to attention.  “A fall, sir.  Understood, sir.” 

“You’re dismissed,” Ramage said.  “Dismissed.  Both of you.” 

“Aye aye.  Sir.” Southwick glowered at him.  But he put his hand on the Marine’s elbow, and they both withdrew to the door. 

As soon as the door was closed, Ramage felt his way to his privy in the stern gallery, and vomited into the sea. 

 

* * *

 

How very strange these Englishmen were! 

Orsini wandered the decks, feeling dazed, as if the timbers of his world were coming loose. 

He had gone to the wardroom, and there he had joined the officers in singing Christmas Carols, and drinking toasts.  They toasted the Prince, and the Captain, and King George, and the Marchesa di Volterra, and when they ran out of famous people they could drink to, Orsini wobbled out onto the gundeck.  He found Rossi at the centre of an eddy of whirling Irishmen and Scots, playing his bagpipes, and he narrowly escaped having to dance.  He fled the ceilidh, and was caught up in a group of drunken Frenchmen storming the _Dido’_ s poop, with a crowd of cheering Englishmen and Portuguese following them.  The Frenchmen struck the Union Jack and hoisted the Tricolour, and sang La Marseillaise, with the Englishmen bellowing NUR-NUR-NUR with them because they didn’t know any of the words.  Lieutenant Pascal tried to make a heartfelt and tearful speech, but he was drowned out by Heart of Oak, which the Frenchmen agreed was a fantastic song for NUR-NUR-NUR.  They sang Nancy Dawson, and Camptown Races, and the Torre di Burannaccio, and a whole lot of French marching songs Orsini didn't know, and everyone loved everyone else, very much, and forever.  It was love, love, love, until the fisticuffs broke out …

Orsini found himself alone, wandering along the upper deck.

“How very strange,” he said.  “How strange and wonderful this feeling is.” 

He felt lost, abandoned, adrift in a strange ship where nothing was as it seemed.  The singing and fighting was dying down.  He wandered from gun to gun, patting the ring of each breech and reading the guns' names to himself.  Such big solid reassuring guns!  He felt strangely loose, as if he had to touch each barrel to reassure himself that it and he were still really there. There were men sleeping between the guns, but they paid him no attention as he passed.  The evening shadows were thick and grey around him.  The sun was sinking. 

“Nearly dusk.  We should be clearing for action,” he said to the head of the ladder leading down to the lower gundeck, but of course it was made out of wood and did not reply.  “All British warships at sea are supposed to clear for action at dusk and dawn.  Always, always.  It is nearly nightfall.  We should be clearing for action.” 

He paused, holding onto the stanchion for support, and examined the sleepers around him.  The music from the Portuguese had fallen silent.  The bagpipers were still going, although _very_ discordantly now. 

“Nobody is listening to me, although I am not alone.  I think this party is winding down.  So!  Englishmen do have a limit to how much they can drink!  My aunt will be surprised to hear that.  She thinks their capacity for alcohol is infinite.” 

“All right,” Orsini said. 

He wandered aft, past the Marines berth.  Some of the Marines were lying on the deck, singing drunkenly.  One of them was trying to take his crossbelts off and getting tangled up in them.  He wobbled past them, and opened the door to the wardroom. 

It was nearly dark.  Kenton was asleep at the table, his head pillowed on one arm. 

He wandered into the wardroom, unguarded.  Mr Kenton was there, fast asleep, his head on his arms. 

Orsini  wobbled across to the sternlights, and leaned against the rudder head for balance to look out.  The curtains had not been lowered, but the evening had fallen.  The sea outside was cold and uninviting.  He could see the ships of the fleet, catching the last of the old sunlight. 

“Look at how the sunset makes their sails glow!” he admired.  “The night is coming up, but they have one last moment of glory!  How I love the sea!  The world is so much bigger than I ever thought it was, and so beautiful!”

Kenton didn't answer.  

 Orsini pushed himself away from the sill.  “My life is full of beautiful things!  I don’t think you see it, at all!  I sometimes think I am the only one who sees such beautiful things, and all you Englishmen don’t even notice them.  I grew up in a palace full of beautiful things.  I _thought_ they were beautiful things, but oh, I was so lonely, Georges!  So lonely!” 

He sat down on a chair with his back against the rudder head, staring at the sky. 

He was woken by a crash.  He up so hard that he slid sideways off his chair and crashed onto the floor.  He gasped in shock from the fall, and pulled himself upright with the seat of the chair. 

There was a roar at the door, and the crashing sound of people throwing themselves madly around in the Marines’ berth.  Orsini pushed himself to his feet. 

The door to the wardroom opened and a moment later Jackson was shoved bodily into the room.  One of the Marines followed him in.  It was Hales - the big one.  Jackson caught himself before he crashed over the table, and swivelled to bellow his rage at Hales. 

_“You get out of my way!” Jackson bellowed.  
_

“You’re drunk!” Hales bellowed back, jabbing his index finger at him. 

“What happened?” Orsini asked, stepping to Jackson’s shoulder.  He saw blood on Jackson’s face.  “Jackson!  You’re bleeding!”

Jackson wrenched his shoulder away from Orsini’s grip.  “I’m going up there to finish what I…”

 _“No, you’re not!”_ Southwick shouted, pushing into the wardroom behind the furious Marine.   _“Get in one of those cabins, and sleep it off!”_

“I have a _right_ to…

 _“No, you don’t!”_   Southwick blared into Jackson’s face at the top of his voice, and Jackson blenched away from the auditory assault.  Southwick’s voice filled the whole room.  Even at his age, the sailing master was capable of a skull-rattling volume that a bull would envy, and he was aiming all of that power into Jackson’s face.  Jackson blenched away. 

“I’d lock you up below, but there are already _eight_ other fighting idiots down there!  And I can’t have the whole ship knowing who hit you!”

"I hit _him_ first." 

“Who?” Orsini asked.  

“The Captain!” Southwick said. 

_“Merda!”_

Jackson grunted, scorn on his bloody face.  He knotted his fists, and Orsini saw that his knuckles were red and grazed.  

**_“You’re still here?”_  ** Southwick bellowed.   _“You better pray this story doesn’t get out!   Brawling like louts in an alleyway!  You idiot!  You’re both idiots!  You want to have a court martial as soon as we reach England?  Haven’t you ever heard of the Articles of War?"_

Jackson's mouth dropped open.  The blood drained from his face.  "I forgot..."  

_"You forgot? **YOU FORGOT?** Get your stupid drunken arse into that cabin and fucking **STAY THERE!"**_

Jackson backed away, knocking against the table.  “Christ,” he said.  "Jesus Christ, what have I done?" 

"You just put your neck in a noose!" Southwick glared at Jackson.  “And you'd deserve it, too!  Any other ship - _any other captain_ \- and you'd be strung up like a goose!  But no - _he_ says you fell!  And I say you fell!  And you had better bloody say you fell, my boy,  and pray like _hell_ nobody _ever_ finds out what _really_ happened!” 

“Christ,” Jackson staggered over to a door at random, and disappeared with a crash. 

 

 


	19. Becalmed

As soon as Ramage woke up, he knew that he was dying.  His worst nightmare had come true.  Yellow fever was in the ship.  He was dying.  He was covered in cold sweat.  His head was pounding as if a band of steel was strapped around his skull like a barrel.  It was unbearable, and he rolled over out of the cot to get away from the unbelievable ache. 

As soon as he moved, his stomach heaved. He was going to be sick – he was going to be sick, _right now._

He was able to squeeze his hand over the hoicking of his throat until he had sprinted through the great cabin.  Out onto the stern gallery, crashing against the rail, and his stomach exploded through his teeth into the sea far below. He heaved, helplessly, again and again, unable to close his throat until his stomach was completely empty.  And then he heaved again, just to make sure that none of the poison was still in him. 

His legs were shaking, and he lowered himself to sit shivering against the solid rail, huddled on the deck. He swore hoarsely, rubbing the back of his wrist across his mouth. 

There was movement behind him; light coming through the sternlight curtains.  He raised his head. 

“Silkin,” he croaked through a raw throat. 

The light changed; Silkin carrying the lantern toward the stern.  He must have spotted the open door and realized where his master had gone.  A moment later the bright lantern came out onto the stern gallery, digging deep into Ramage’s right eye.  He flinched and turned his head away. 

“Sir?”

“Water,” Ramage croaked.  He closed his eyes – he could not look at the lantern.  He was shaking with cold, in spite of the tropical night.  The cold sweat seemed to drying on his skin to a sickly crust.  His head … God. 

“There isn’t any, sir,” Silkin said. 

“Go to the scuttlebutt and find some, damn it!” 

“Aye aye, sir,” Silkin said.  He went away into the cabin. 

Ramage reached up a shaking hand for the rail over his head, and pulled himself to his feet.  His knees felt loose, but they supported him.  He felt his way through the door, and back inside. 

Silkin had left the lantern on the table.  Ramage stared at the lantern, and realized that only one eye seemed to be working.   He touched his fingers to his eye-sockets and flinched when his fingertips met a mass of painful swelling.  

He picked up the lantern, eyes squeezed from the glare, and carried it to his sleeping cabin.  He held the lantern up to his mirror, so that he could see his face.  His eye was swollen shut, and purple like a rotten fruit.  His eyelashes poked out through hideous rolls of bloated bruise. 

Oh, God.  He was going to have to go out on deck, looking like this?  It would be instantly obvious that he had been punched in the face.  The hand he was using to hold up the lantern was sore, and he realized that he had skinned his knuckles. 

The embarrassment suddenly came alive within him.  He had skinned his knuckles bashing them into a friend’s face.  He’d thrown himself on a man old enough to be his father; a man who had been by his side in every fight since the Torre di Burannacio.  He had had his fingers wrapped around Jackson’s throat!  One drink too many, and Ramage had lost his mind and all his dignity, and reverted to a raving brute. 

How the hell would he describe _that_ in his letters to Sarah?  A gentleman – _him?_ He had behaved like a drunk rolling in the street outside a cheap tavern.  He was ashamed – and _everyone_ in the ship could see his shame on his face.  The nausea rose again in his belly. 

* * *

 

The ship came alive.  The world turned to face a new day. 

Long before sunrise, the watch on duty began to holystone the decks, as slowly as if the holystones had tripled in weight.  The water sluiced more slowly, and the holystones moved slowly over the planking.  The sun rose, revealing a quarterdeck that looked as if no-one had _ever_ danced on it.  The traditional cry of ‘see a grey horse at a mile’ went up, and the lookouts were sent aloft.  Then the guns were secured again, and the watches went below for breakfast.  

The excesses of Christmas were over.  The Lord of Misrule had vanished into hiding, until next year. 

Ramage walked slowly back and forth across the quarterdeck.  The sunrise revealed Ramage’s swollen eye, but no-one remarked on it.  He saw glances at him, and then sliding away again.  The traditional solitude of the captain on the quarterdeck meant that he didn’t have to talk to anyone.  He clasped his hands behind him, and walked back and forth along quarterdeck, grateful that the ship was barely moving.   

He could deal with his headache, he told himself firmly.  That was just pain.  He could manage pain.  Pain was not dangerous.  But his guts were slowly churning inside him.  If he swallowed too hard… no, he must not swallow too hard.  He could deal with the headache, but he must not think about swallowing at all.  He could not afford to throw up on deck. 

It seemed that the Dido was unnaturally silent this morning.  Was there far less calling and conversation this morning?  He discouraged excess shouting in his ships – ships where everyone bellowed all the time were invariably the worst handled – but was this the quiet of the hideously hung-over, or the silent distress of men who knew exactly what had happened in the great cabin last night?  There was no way to ask. 

The ship’s officers were congregating on the other side of the deck, talking quietly next to the ladder up to the poop deck.  Kenton’s face was grey, and he was sweating and swallowing heavily every few moments.  Even Southwick’s plump face was looking rather pinched.  They looked at him, and then as he looked at them, they looked away again quickly. 

Jackson arrived on the lee side of the quarterdeck, climbing up the ladder from the gundeck.  At the sight of his face, Ramage’s stomach dropped. 

Jackson’s nose and upper lip were swollen out of shape, badly enough for Ramage to wonder if his nose might have been fractured.  His neckcloth was wrapped high under his lean chin this morning, higher than usual to hide the finger marks Ramage had put on his throat.  Jackson’s lips were set tight, but whether in irritation or pain Ramage could not tell.  Jackson was a master at the art of masking his emotions.  

Kenton saw Jackson, and jerked in surprise.  And then his gaze turned to Ramage, and his lips framed a silent O of amazement.  Every man on the quarterdeck could see those bruises, and Ramage’s swollen eye.  Every man had to know what had happened.  The whole ship could see that the Captain and his secretary had got into a drunken brawl last night.

Southwick sniffed, and turned his eyes toward Ramage, and his face looked very unimpressed.  Ramage had never heard that particular sniff before, but he was _sure_ it was a rebuke. 

He felt the embarrassment curdling in his belly.  

Yesterday had been a disgrace.  The Articles of War forbade drunkenness.  He himself had been drunk.  The Articles forbade fighting. He himself had been fighting.  Ramage could not punish his men.  He could not punish one without punishing all, and he could not punish all without punishing one. They knew it; _he_ knew it. 

 But most of all, mercilessly and inexorably, the Articles forbade striking a superior officer.  Captains were not supposed to be punched in the face, by anyone, ever.  It was contrary to the Articles of War; it was a capital offense. 

 _“If any officer, mariner, soldier or other person in the fleet, shall strike any of his superior officers…”_    It was a capital crime.  Jackson would hang for it; must hang for it. The Articles of War laid down only one punishment for striking a superior officer: death.

But nobody _knew_ what had happened in the great cabin.  Everyone could see, but nobody had proof.  Southwick could sniff all day, but Ramage knew he would not talk out of turn.. Nobody could prove anything, but hearsay and rumours.  They could gossip all they wanted, but nobody would ever know for certain. 

“There’s a boat, sir,” Master’s mate Singer said to Kenton, very quietly. 

“A boat?” Kenton went to the rail.  “Yes.  It’s a boat.  Sir, it's the _Bedford_ _’_ s boat.”

“The _Bedford_ ’s boat.”  Ramage walked to the side and stared over the rail into the water.  “Yes.  It’s the _Bedford_ _’_ s boat."

The boat was standing off the _Dido’s_ quarter, half a cable away.  Walker was standing up in the sternsheets, staring at the the _Dido_ with his hands shading his eyes _,_ as if he had never seen a seventy-four before. 

 “Mr Kenton, the side-boys, if you please.” 

“Aye aye, sir,” Kenton said.  He turned away, wincing at the punishment he was about to administer himself.  “Bosun’s mates.  The sideboys.”

The scream of bosun’s pipes was surely the worst sound Ramage had ever heard in his life.   The sideboys and Marines arrived on the gangway, ready to give Walker the formal welcome due his rank as a post-captain.  Walker came aboard, and Mr Kenton brought him aft. 

Ramage couldn’t cover his swollen eye; it would be too obvious.  He just had to brazen through the fact that he had clearly been punched in the face, as if he himself had somehow not noticed it yet.  He raised his hand in the salute. 

“Ramage,” Walker said, and stopped dead, his salute bobbing with surprise.  He was staring at Ramage’s face.

“Welcome to the _Dido,_ sir,” Ramage said. 

“Thank you.”  Walker cast his gaze around the ship, and stopped short again, staring at something over Ramage’s shoulder. 

Ramage was sure that Walker had seen Loach’s face for the first time.  He turned around, but Walker wasn’t looking at Loach. 

He was looking at Jackson.  Jackson's face told the story that matched Ramage’s face.  Ramage’s eye; Jackson’s lip. 

For a moment, nobody spoke. The sideboys were silent, watching.  The officers were frozen.  All eyes were on Walker; no-one spoke on the deck.

Ramage was reminded of the silence in his old _Calypso,_ when he had come back aboard and found the madman Captain Bullivant waving his pistols around and raving about the Devil.  The officers, Orsini and Southwick and even Rennick the Marine, had been frozen, horrified to silence. 

Walker's face was a picture.  His eyes went from Jackson, to Ramage, and back.  It was clear that Ramage had been hit in the face; it was obvious that Jackson had been hit in the face _repeatedly._  

Walker opened his mouth, but Ramage jumped in before he could speak. "Is there anything we can do for you this morning, Captain Walker?" 

"I don't know, Ramage," Walker said.  "Is everything well this morning?” 

“I'm sure everything is well this morning,” Ramage said.  “Isn’t that so, Mr Jackson?”

“Everything is fine, Captain,” Jackson said, right on cue. 

“What makes you think there is something wrong, Captain Walker?” Ramage asked.

Walker swivelled.  _“That,”_ he said.  He pointed up at the _Dido's_ poop deck. 

Ramage’s gaze followed Walker’s gold-laced cuff.  For a moment he thought Walker was pointing up at the spanker sail.  But there was nothing wrong with the spanker sail.  The rigging looked undamaged.  The Union Flag was drooping straight down, but it was … 

 _“Crap,”_ Orsini and Loach said in the same voice.  They took off for the poop deck ladder at the same time, and then briefly fought each other to get up the ladder at the same time. 

“Your flag, Captain,” Walker said.  “Is _upside-down_.” 

“I’m dreadfully sorry, sir,” Ramage said. 

"The last time I checked," Walker said, "flying your ensign upside down was a distress signal." 

“It must have gone unnoticed this morning.  We’re all a little the worst for wear.” 

"So I see," Walker said. 

The flag was coming down at a run, hauled hand-over-hand down the halliard.  It reappeared; the right way around this time, and ran swiftly to the end of the gaff.  Orsini and Loach had whipped it off the line and run it back on again. 

"I do apologise for the distress signal, Captain Walker.  It won’t happen again.”  He was aware of every man in the ship listening to him, in that deathly silence.   He kept his eyes fixed innocently on Walker’s.  He tried to restrain his usual blinking, in case Walker thought he was blinking to _hide_ something.  

Walker's gaze lingered on Jackson’s face for one more moment, and then back to Ramage.  He seemed to come to a decision, because he shook his head wryly. 

“Well, she’s your ship,” he said to Ramage.  “Christmas comes but once a year, after all.” 

“It had better,” Ramage said.

“I’ll take my leave, Ramage.” 

“Yes, sir,” Ramage said.  He raised his hand to the salute.  The sideboys piped, and the Marines presented arms all over again, as Walker left the ship. 

The boat pushed off, and rowed briskly away. 

“Sir,” said Kenton.  “About yesterday...” 

Ramage turned on him.  “This is the end of yesterday!  I don’t want to hear one more word on the subject of yesterday!  Yesterday _never happened!_   It will not be noted in the log, and it will _not_ be described in the journals!  I _never_ want to hear another word about yesterday!" 

"Aye aye, sir!" Kenton whipped up his hand in a salute. 

Ramage stalked to the rail.  He stared across the sea.  The _Bedford_ ’s boat already getting further away.  He felt, rather than saw, someone move up to the rail at his side.  He heard Jackson clear his throat. 

"Captain, sir." 

"Mr Jackson." 

"May I have a word with you, sir?"

"In Italian," Ramage said, turning away from the rail. 

Jackson made a little bow. _"Si, signore."_

Jackson’s lip was swollen and raw.  The bloody graze had dried to a black scab.  He probably had worse bruises under his coat, Ramage thought, bitterly.  He probably had finger marks around his throat. A moment later he realized that Jackson was looking at him just as closely.  They had spent several seconds simply inspecting each other in silence. 

"Will you walk with me, Signor Jackson?"

"Yes, of course."

Ramage turned, and Jackson turned with him.  Ramage could feel the eyes watching them.  He kept his eyes outboard. 

“I wish to apologise for yesterday," Jackson said.    

“You’ve nothing to apologise for," Ramage said. 

Jackson looked surprised.  “I hit you.” 

“Yes, but I hit you _harder_."

"I noticed." Jackson's hand went up to his face.

"And I didn’t _stop,"_ Ramage added.  "I went berserk."

“Do you not accept my apology?” 

“Are you satisfied with mine?” 

“Yes.  Of course.”

“Then it’s done. I don’t want to fight with my friends.” 

Jackson nodded.  He ran his hand over the top of his head.  "We're on the verge of disaster," he said. 

"No, we are not," Ramage said.  "We would be, if you were just a sailor, which we both know you are not.  Oh, don’t _look_ at me like that, man!  We’re beyond that point now.” 

Jackson raised both hands, conceding the point – an Italian gesture he had slowly adopted from Orsini.

"Nobody knows for certain, except Mr Southwick, and Hales, and they won't say a word."

Jackson ran his hand over his head again.  "Captain Walker guessed."

"Yes, but he doesn't _know,"_ Ramage said.  "Listen - just a few months ago I heard a story about a captain who punched an Admiral in the face and got away with it." 

"An _Admiral?"_ Jackson looked boggled. 

"The whole ship knew about it, but the story never got out.  So you see, six hundred men _can_ keep a secret." 

"I suppose they can," Jackson said. 

Ramage reached the forward rail, and turned, and Jackson turned with him. 

They needed a wind.  The _Dido_ ’s water was running low.  The ship was leaking; the pump was running for hours every day;the men were at each other's throats.  And that damned shark was still down there, circling. They needed a wind, by any means. 

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

“Mr Dawlish,” Ramage called as they neared the quarterdeck again.    

The boy trotted across to him.  “Sir?” 

“Do you know how to whistle?” 

“Yes, sir?”  Dawlish looked puzzled.

“Go forward to the foremast, and stick a knife in it, and then let’s hear you whistle.  We need a wind.” 

Dawlish frowned suspiciously.  Stick his knife into the mast?  He’d already been sent on every conceivable snipe hunt chase that the ship’s officers could remember: green oil for the starboard lamp; the carpenter’s long wait; ten feet of freeboard.  Hill had even sent him back for the _left-_ handed long wait. 

“What are you waiting for?” Ramage demanded.  “What do you say to an order?”

“Aye, aye, sir!”  The lad turned and trotted along the gangway, taking his knife from his breeches pocket as he went.  He disappeared from Ramage’s view on the fo’c’sle on the other side of the foremast. 

He was aware of the eyes on the quarterdeck, watching him closely. 

"How did you find out?" Jackson asked quietly, still in Italian.

"Rumour and scuttlebutt," Ramage said.  "A lot of the men suspect, though none of them knows for sure.  But you _were_ an officer."

"I was," Jackson admitted.  "Second South Carolina Cavalry."

"I thought you were militia?"

"I worked with them.  I was on the staff.  Galloping around, delivering messages, collecting reports, that sort of thing."

"You didn't command troops?"

"No.  And I give you my word, I am not serving now.  I retired.  That was long ago, and I'm a different man now." 

Ramage stopped him with one hand on his shoulder.  "I give you my word in return.  I won't pry into your business.  You have your secrets.  And I will abide.” 

“You will, will you?” 

“Officers don’t pry into each other’s business.  If you want to keep your past secret, then I’ll abide.  I give you my word, I will never pry into your past, or gossip about them."

"Just like that?"

"Yes," Ramage said.  "Just like that. You asked me in the _Kathleen_ to keep your name out of my despatches. I'll keep on doing that." 

Ramage remembered that sickening moment when he’d accused Jackson of running away.  He had seen the pain in Jackson’s eyes.  Not just pain: _shame._

 _Jackson_ _had been a deserter._

No wonder, then, that he had never told Ramage the truth.  The shame of dishonour was an emotion that the simple seamen on the lower deck would never understand.  Most of them had been conscripted into the Navy by the press gang; they looked on desertion as a lucky escape.  Stafford or Rossi would never understand.  It was a sensitivity that _only_ another officer would understand.

Ramage did not want to know.    He could handle the idea of Jackson being more than he seemed; he did not know what he would do if Jackson was _less._ Jackson’s quiet shame was Jackson’s secret.  _  
_

"It's not that I don't want to know," Ramage said, just in case Jackson thought he was devoid of all human curiosity.  "If you choose to tell me, I'll listen.  But your past is your own business, and I will abide."  

"I can't go back to being your coxswain, can I?"  Jackson said, thoughtfully. 

"No.  And I don't want you to, either.  A seventy-four is a damn big ship.  I need one man in it who knows he's my equal.  At least one man who isn't afraid to punch me in the face."

"Then I'll abide," Jackson said, simply.  He reached out one hand toward the rail, and made a tipping gesture with his palm.  Letting go.

They had walked only a few steps along the gangway, when Ramage heard the whistle from the foremast.   

He groaned with despair, and was surprised to hear Jackson at his side groan at the same moment.  He looked at Jackson in time to see Jackson look back at him with the same expression of astonishment. 

There was only one other person in the whole world who understood _exactly_ how Ramage felt about that song.  The Faithful Seaman and the Dashing English Lord burst out laughing. 

“That _damned_ song!” Jackson said. 

“Everywhere I go, every dinner, every music recital, every party," Ramage complained, reverting to Italian, _"some fool_ is _going_ to get up and sing _that song._ You're lucky!  Nobody knows your real name!”

They reached the forward end of the gangway, at the aft end of the fo’c’sle, and turned.  They had never paced a quarterdeck together before, but they fell into step with each other immediately as if they had been walking together tor years.  They really _were_ like two peas in a pod, Ramage thought.  He felt desperately sad that it had taken him so long to really understand that fact. 

Jackson cleared his throat. 

“You do know my real name,” he said.  And for the first time, he spoke to Ramage with the familiar 'tu' instead of the formal 'lei.'

“Do I?” Ramage asked. 

“My name is Thomas Ignatius Jackson.  I've never lied to you about that.” 

“Well, I am glad to meet you, Thomas Ignatius Jackson,” Ramage said, and reached out his hand.  "My friends call me Nick."

Jackson looked down at his hand, clearly wondering if Ramage was being facetious, and then he reached out his hand.  His grip was strong and wiry.  "My friends call me Jacko." 

 _“Deck there!”_ The hail from aloft came ringing down in the silence.  _"I see a wind!"_

Ramage whirled, and stared up into the burning sky. 

High above, the masthead lookout was reaching out with his hand. He was pointing across the sea as if he could reach out and touch what he saw. 

_" _I see a wind!"_ the man shouted again.  _"Fine on the starboard quarter!"__

“Sir!  Sir!”  Hill was calling from the other side of the deck.  He was pointing out across the rail at something in the distance.  Ramage strode across to him, aware of Jackson and Southwick closing in around him. 

The sea beyond the _Alfonso_ was changing colour. 

No, Ramage realized; _not_ changing colour.  The water was being riffled by a gust of wind, refracting the sunshine into a million tiny facets.  It looked as if an artist was laying a new layer of blue colour over the old.  The riffled patch was rolling slowly across the sea. 

“That’s a wind, all right!” 

“The wind!” Dom Rodrigo called excitedly from the poop.  “Praise be to God!” 

The gust reached the _Alfonso._   Her sails unfolded, stirring with life.  It was just a breath, just a single gentle whisper into her sails, but enough to bring the great ship back to life.  Then the _Alfonso’_ s canvas folded down into itself again.  Her sails fell motionless as the gust died.  If she had moved at all, it was not visible. 

It was just one breath of wind.  It was already gone – but there was more coming in.  The colour of the sea was changing as the wind broke up the glossy surface.  Just gentle breaths on the face of the waters, but soon the teasing breaths would fill the sails.  The _Dido_ would have her power again, and come alive, and sing. 

Ramage looked at Jackson, and Jackson met his eye.  “Dawlish has a lucky knife!”

“It’s not the knife," Jackson said.  "It’s that damn song!”

Ramage burst out laughing.   "It's that damn song!" 

The fleet was across the Doldrums at last.  They had dragged themselves over the hump of the world, and the opposite Trade wind was coming back to take them into its care.  They were on their way to Brazil.

 

 


	20. The Bay of All Saints (And Almost All Sins)

The Portuguese knew exactly where they were going.  The fleet was tacking smartly, one by one, as if they had been brought back to life by the idea of fresh water and food.  They were sailing into a deep cleft of a bay that was opening up before them.  It was a great deep bay, like a hook dug into the side of Brazil: the Bay of All Saints. 

The fleet steered into the bay, one by one, gliding into their landfall, like gulls coming in for the night.  One by one, the ships gathered in their sails, folding down their wings to roost at anchor in the Bay.  _Home!_ Home, and _safe,_ after the long, long flight across the Atlantic. 

“Mr Dawlish,” Ramage said.  He lowered his telescope.  “How long has the fleet been at sea?” 

He waited for Dawlish to remember how many days there were in a month.  The boy was learning not to count on his fingers - at least, not where Southwick could see him.  “Fifty-four days since Lisbon, sir!” 

“Thank you!” 

It was probably the longest Atlantic crossing Ramage had ever made.  They had been becalmed for almost a fortnight before the wind came back in strength.  At one point Southwick had estimated that they had taken ten days to cover just ninety miles.  The trade wind had returned at last, taking them into its care and carrying them safely, steadily, the rest of the way down to Salvador de Bahia. 

A voyage of over four thousand miles, nearly over.  Now, only these last few miles remained. 

"Mr Kenton, I have the conn," Ramage called.  "I'll take her in myself this morning."  

“Very good, sir,” Kenton said, automatically, but his face lit up in an grin.  They both knew Ramage was pulling rank to sail into the exciting new anchorage. 

The Portuguese guarded the Bay of All Saints jealously, and allowed no foreign power to anchor there.  They were breaking new ground this day.  Ramage commanded a ship of the line; he was far too senior now ever to be sent away on a voyage of exploration.  Today was the last time in his career that he would _ever_ sail into an anchorage that had not been charted and surveyed and bouyed for him by others, and he knew it.  He was damn well going to make the best of it. 

It was a beautiful summer morning.  The sea was cupid blue, cupped by the arms of rolling green forest.  The hot sky was cobbled with grey tropical clouds.  Patches of light and shadow cruised across the shimmering sea.  

The _Dido_ was ghosting along under topsails to her new anchorage, following the _Bedford._ The ship had  had a festive atmosphere today.   The Portuguese passengers were lining the starboard rail, watching their new home unfold before them.  Even the French prisoners were on deck, looking at the place where they would probably sit out the war with curiosity and interest.  The decks were crowded; the rigging was full of sailors.  Every telescope in the ship was in use on the quarterdeck   

“I like this anchorage,” Orsini said to Southwick. 

 “How do you know?  You’ve never seen it before!”

“Ah, but _you’ve_ never seen it before either, have you?” Orsini grinned at Southwick, his black eyes sparkling.  “I could be wrong, Mr Southwick, but I do believe this is the first anchorage _I_ have ever seen that _you_ haven’t seen first!" 

Ramage raised his telescope again, and had another look at the town now opening up on the _Dido’_ s starboard bow. 

Salvador sloped down to the water, perched along the peninsula that hooked around the Bay of All Saints.   It was bigger than Ramage had expected.  He had expected a tiny harbour, but this was a small city.  The shoreline was crowded with rooftops, hanging over the waterfront.  The houses seemed to be stacked on top of each other other, balancing like a house of cards. 

He took out his telescope and levelled it on the city, and realized that in fact Salvador da Bahia was built in two layers.  The lower city was built at the water’s edge, but above that was a steep ridge, with the upper city seeming to hang over the lower one.  Both levels were punctuated by palm trees and steeples.  It was a lovely-looking place, he admitted. 

The Portuguese ships were clewing up their sails, ready for furling.  One by one, each ship was anchoring, coming to rest, safe at last in the arms of the Bay of All Saints.  Ahead of the _Dido,_ the _Bedford_ was ghosting along slowly under topsails alone _._   Ramage watched the _Bedford_ closely.  Where the _Bedford_ anchored, the _Dido_ would too.  Flags went up the _Bedford_ 's signal halliard. 

“Mr Bennett?” Ramage said, without taking his eyes off the _Bedford_ _._

“Our number, sir,” Bennett called,  “and ‘I Have Anchorage.’”

“Very well,” Ramage said.  “Acknowledge that, Mr Bennett."

The _Bedford_ too had been feeling her way in with a lead.  If all these Portuguese captains were happy with the ground in mid-channel, then it would probably be good for the _Dido_ and the _Bedford_ too.  Ramage watched as the _Bedford'_ s sails were clewed up, and she turned ponderously as her anchor bit. 

The _Dido_ slipped up astern of the _Bedford_ _._ Not too close to the _Bedford_ , or the _Dido_ would foul the _Bedford_ _’_ s hawser.    Ramage drew a circle on the sea with his eye, and coaxed his ship to where he wanted her, with short commands to Pegg and to the sail-handlers.  It was a manouevre Ramage had carried out hundreds of times before, but never before in a port no English warship had entered before. 

“Let go!” 

The anchor dropped from the cathead.   The cable raced out through the hawsehole as the anchor’s weight hauled it inexorably down, down, down to the bottom of the bay.  The _Dido_ trembled at the tons of cable roaring out, and the scent of smoking cable reached all the way aft, and then the tremors stopped.   The _Dido_ 's sails were clewed up efficiently, leaving just enough forward way for the flukes of the anchor to bite.  The anchor hooked onto the sea bed, holding her steady. The _Dido_ swung around, slowly, as her cable brought her around by the head, streaming to the wind. 

They were home. 

“Tell the gunner to stand by for the salute!” Ramage said to Kenton.  “The forts will salute the Royal Standard, and we’ll reply to the forts.” 

“Aye aye, sir.” 

Below, along the _Dido_ ’s main gun deck, the first twenty-one guns had been loaded with a saluting charge.  The crews of the guns would be waiting, some of them watching the gunner who would time the salute.  Stafford and Rossi would be down there, looking down the length of DeGrasse’s barrel. 

Ramage waited. 

The flags flew on the walls of the fort on the point … but there was no bang or puff of smoke from those embrasures. 

“Stand by for the salute,” Ramage said, again.  “Wait for it.” 

Nothing happened. 

Ramage stared at the _Bedford,_ waiting for the first shot,  but there was nothing. 

“Hullo.  Where is everyone?” Kenton wondered aloud. 

“Dom Rodrigo?” Ramage queried.   

“I don’t know,”  Dom Rodrigo admitted.  He took off his hat and scratched his head, and stared around him at his fellow Portuguese, as if any of them could give him an answer.  One of them shrugged his shoulders, mystified.  The throngs that crowded the _Dido's_ decks were starting to chatter in confusion. 

Ramage took his telescope out from under his arm, and levelled it at the docks.  Nothing was moving on the docks.  He ran the lens up and down the shoreline.  Quiet; all quiet. The streets and docks were deserted, as if the city had been abandoned.  The hairs rose on the back of his neck.  He remembered the childhood tales of New World cities attacked and sacked by pirates; Portobelo, and Panama – no peace beyond the line.  

But surely that didn’t happen in this day and age!  And anyway, there was no sign of fighting that he could see.  He saw no shell damage, or burned buildings.  It simply looked as if the entire population of Salvador had got up overnight and disappeared. 

* * *

 

Below on the _Dido’_ s gun deck, Will Stafford crouched down on one heel, and looked down the length of DeGrasse’s barrel.  The lanyard was coiled on the lock, ready to be fired, but he had not touched it yet.  His view was interrupted by the fat flare of the muzzle, yawning out at the ranked rooftops of the town. 

“Wot’s takin’ them so long?” he asked.  He had heard the sail handlers running about on the deck above his head, and the rumble of the anchor cable running out.  “They should have started the salute by now!”

“Maybe they are having the siesta?” Rossi wondered. 

“They can’t all be sleeping!” Stafford complained.  “They must hurry up and get it  over with!  We’ve got a fleet full of bad water, bad food and lice!” 

“They do _know_ this is their Prince Regent, don’t they?” Gilbert asked. 

“Of course they know!” Auguste answered.  “They can see the Royal Standard!” 

“Then where are they?”  Gilbert said. 

“They have lost the keys to the fort’s magazine,” Rossi joked.  _“Si._   They are running around in circles looking for their keys!  That is it!  Must be!” 

“Maybe they have yellow fever?” Gilbert said.  “Maybe this is a quarantine?” 

“That’d be a laugh,” Stafford said.  “Sail all the way ‘ere to get away from the French, and then find the Yellow Jack waitin’ for you!” 

“Is not funny,” Auguste said, earnestly. 

Stafford got up, and walked forward past Louis.  He leaned over to look out through the gunport.  He knew colonials were sleepy, but _this_ was taking the cake! 

“Country bumpkins!”  Stafford grumbled.  “Nahh, I’m telling you what it is, mate.  They’re country idiots, and somefin’s ‘appened what they’ve never seen before, and now their li’l ‘eads are explodin’ cos they don’t know what to do.  Fink of some idiot from the arse end o’ Cornwall – and _then_ picture Cornwall bein’ all the way out ‘ere!”

“Mr Ramage is from Cornwall,” Rossi pointed out. 

 _“He_ don’t count,” Stafford said.  “His family ‘as a house in London.”

“Madonna!” Rossi raised his hands.  “I give up!”  He walked over to the port and put his head out to have a look.  “Hullo,” he said.  “Here is a boat coming out.” 

Stafford stuck his head out on the other side of DeGrasse’s barrel. 

“You’d better ‘ave a good explanation, mate,” Stafford directed to the boat.  “That’s your boss’s _boss_ in that ship!” 

He watched it closely.  It was rowing steadily toward the _Principe Real_.  It reached the Portuguese ship, and disappeared out of his sight under the stern. 

* * *

 

Ramage had gone below to his cabin, after an hour of staring at the shore.  The entire fleet had filed in and anchored in a great swathe down the centre of the bay, but as far as the city of Salvador was concerned they might as well not be there.  Nobody even walked out onto the wharves to look.  Only one small boat, out of the whole city, had set out from the waterfront and rowed across to the anchored _Principe_ _Real._

That was it.  That was all the acknowledgement they had.  The fleet might as well have anchored on the moon. 

An hour later, Midshipman Dawlish knocked on his cabin door, and informed him that a boat had gone from the _Principe Real_ to the _Bedford,_ and now another was coming across from the _Bedford_ _._   Ten minutes later, Ramage met Captain Walker, and escorted him down to the great cabin.

"What is going on?" Ramage asked.  "Why the silence?  Why are we being ignored."

"We are not being ignored," Walker said.  "The Governor knew we were on our way - some ships have already reached harbour at Recife - and he ordered that nothing should be done until the Prince has given orders as to what he wants them to do." 

“And has he, sir?” 

“Aye.  The Prince has decided that the Royal Family will spend one last night in the ships, and disembark in the morning.”

“Damn,” Ramage said.  “I suppose that means no-one else will be able to disembark before then?” 

“It was _heavily_ implied," Walker grinned.  "Tomorrow the Royal Family will go ashore in procession, and the City Council will be assembled to welcome them, and then we will all proceed to the Cathedral to hear a Te Deum, and then the Prince will hold a levee at which the local worthies will present themselves to their sovereign and make their obediences.” 

“So today is the calm before the storm," Ramage said.  

“Aye.  They're verrae busy, arranging it all now.  And, also, the ladies in the town are making arrangements to collect adequate, um, apparel, for the distressed female passengers who are lacking certain…”

“No need to explain,” Ramage said, quickly.  He could still remember the ladies’ hairpieces floating on the sea. 

“Also, I asked permission for our officers to take part in tomorrow’s festivities, and this permission was immediately granted.  Full dress, honours, and swords, ye ken?”

 “The _Dido’_ s officers will be there,” Ramage said. 

“And there was one last thing,” Walker said.  “One last thing.  The Prince Regent requested the presence of the Lord of the Selkies tomorrow during the procession.”

“Who?” Kenton asked. 

“I'm sure I don't know myself," Walker said, "but that was the request.  Verbatim.  The Lord of the Selkies. I rather presumed you would know who that was, since I was asked _verrae_ politely to ask you." 

Kenton looked at Ramage, puzzled, but Ramage had already guessed who the Lord of the Selkies was.  No Portuguese would be named after a piece of British sea-lore, Ramage thought, but the Volterrani _did_ like their melodramatic little epithets, didn’t they?  

“Inform Captain Walker that I’ll bring the Lord of the Selkies with me tomorrow,” he said.  

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Salvador da Bahia was a different city. The first bells began to ring at dawn, with more joining every hour in a tireless song to the sky.  The fort fired its salutes.  The warships at anchor fired their salutes back, so clouds of smoke eddied across the bay.  The piers and docks were lined with crowds and bunting and waving flags, and the sound of excitement were audible even from the Dido’s deck. 

The _Dido_ ’s salute began, timed perfectly, adding her deep martial voice to the racket. The din was tremendous: every church bell seemed to be tolling as if to compete with the explosive cracking of the salutes, and underscored by the cheering hordes on the docks. 

“How different to Lisbon!” Orsini marvelled aloud. 

Ramage glanced at him.  Orsini was dressed in his Volterrani uniform again.  Dom Rodrigo was in his usual place: glued to Orsini’s side like an aide-de-camp.  All Ramage's officers were ready, looking their best in their full-dress uniforms.   Ramage himself was wearing his best uniform; gold lace, high stock, and heavy sword.  He was already sweating heavily.  They would all look better than they smelled by the time they reached the Cathedral, he thought. 

“There they go!”  Mr Loach shouted, pointing across the stern.  

Ramage whipped his telescope up and took a quick glance.  The first boat was putting off from the side of the _Principe Real_.  More boats were following from the _Principe Real,_ and from the _Alfonso._ He could see feathers and gold lace, even from here. 

“And away we go!  Mr Southwick, the ship is yours.” 

“Aye aye, sir,” Southwick said, touching his hat.  “Good luck, sir!” 

Ramage’s officers were already filing down into the boat, one by one, in reverse rank order.  Ramage was last into the boat, and they pushed off from the _Dido’s_ side and followed the _Bedford_ _’_ s boat into the thick of the celebrations.  He sat down in the sternsheets of the longboat among his officers.  The boat pulled quickly around the Dido, and pulled strongly for the dock. 

“Oh, Lord,” Captain Rennick said, looking forward to the wharves ahead of them.  “We’re going in through that lot?” 

Ramage leaned forward.  There was a scrum at the water steps, boats jostling, oars dipping.  The crowds above were being barely held off from the water’s edge by Portuguese soldiers. 

“Don’t let us collide with anyone,” he said, turning his head to the side so that Stafford heard his voice. 

“We’re bigger’n them, sir!  We c’n push ‘em out of our way.” 

“Don’t collide with anyone,” Ramage insisted.  “I’m not in the temper for swimming today!  Wait for them to discharge all their passengers!” 

Last into the boat; first out.  Ramage climbed the water steps to the top of the dock, and took his first steps on Brazilian soil.  The crowd was a solid mass; flags waving, shouting, jumping.  The Portuguese soldiers were holding the crowd back from the edge, and he spotted the channel being kept open for him.  He pushed his way through it.  Was this how it had felt to be Lord Nelson?  Cheered by crowds into the _Victory’_ s boat on his way to Trafalgar?  The crowds didn’t seem to care that he wore a British uniform; they reach out their hands to grab him around the shoulders of the soldiers, they waved flags at his face, and cheered him in a language he didn’t understand. 

He paused long enough to ensure that his officers had all climbed up behind him, and then plunged down the noisy channel into the crowd.  As soon as they were away from the wharf they were swamped, and carried away up the street. 

Ramage spotted a hat exactly like his own, over the shouting faces and waving flags.  He couldn’t see who wore it, but he knew that hat.  “There’s Walker!” he shouted, pointing so that his officers could see, and pushed his way through the mob toward him.  He broke out into a quieter patch – subdued by soldiers again. Ramage turned, and spotted the Prince Regent. 

There was a square gazebo, fluttering with Portuguese flags, with the French tricolour spread underfoot.   Under it, the Prince Regent and his family were receiving a long speech.  The Queen was weeping wordlessly, tears streaming silkily down her lined cheeks, seemingly unnoticed by anyone. 

The _Bedford_ ’s party were forming up to one side of the royal family, and Ramage led his officers to join them.  Walker greeted Ramage with a handshake, and leaned to Ramage’s side to shout something that Ramage did not hear, and pointed to the Prince. 

The speech maker was gesturing toward a line of carriages, drawn by fretting horses.  The Prince nodded, serenely accepting the arrangements.  He trod across the carpet of French flags, and climbed up into the first carriage.  The two small princes followed their father, and the door closed.  The rest of the royal family were ushered into different carriages.  Whips cracked, the horses plunged, and the royal family was off. 

Walker tugged at Ramage’s arm, dragging him toward the nearest carriage.   “We had better grab a carriage, lad!” 

“What about precedence?” 

“To hell with precedence!  No time!  Come on, lad!  Forrard to the breach!” 

“Here!” Orsini was calling them both from the line of carriages.  “Uncle, here!”  He was pointing to a carriage right behind him. 

Ramage darted forward, towing Walker behind him.  Orsini let him through the carriage door, and Walker jumped in after him.  Orsini jumped in and Dom Rodrigo jumped up after him, and banged the door shut.  The driver cracked his whip, and the carriage jerked into movement.  The crowd swung around as the driver manouevred his vehicle through them, and they were rattling over the cobbles. 

There were two Portuguese already in here, and they looked startled to find themselves sharing a carriage with a pair of _Inglês._   Dom Rodrigo explained quickly in Portuguese, while Ramage gripped the windowsill, and stared at the city.  The street they were rolling through was lined with crowds and waving flags and cheers, and soldiers presenting arms, and dancers whirling.  Noise, bright colours, cheers, faces looking in, and the jerking of the carriage over the cobbles.  The cheering faces were surprisingly dark; he had been expecting to see Mediterranean complexions, but this crowd could have been in Africa, or Antigua. 

The greatest war in history had reached across the Atlantic to this quiet port, and these people were _ecstatic_. 

“This must be the oddest victory I have ever celebrated!”  Ramage said. 

“D’ye think it’s a victory?”  Walker asked. 

“I _know_ it’s a victory!” Ramage said, happily.  He could not focus his gaze on any one point in the throng without becoming dazzled, but it was impossible not to grin. 

“And like this,” Dom Rodrigo said, “you won at Trafalgar.” 

“Like this, we’re going to win the war!” Ramage told him.  He sat back against the carriage cushions and grinned. 

* * *

 

Ramage didn’t see Orsini again until late that night.  It had been impossible to keep up with the Prince Regent, and Orsini was pulled away into the royal orbit.  Ramage and Walker were sucked along in the slipstream of the Prince, and some time after dark, they found themselves on the broad steps outside the Governor’s palace. 

Ramage found a corner to lean against, and raised and rested one foot at a time, trying to ease the ache in his feet.  His feet hurt.  He’d stood and listened to speeches, he’d stood and listened to a Te Deum sung in a golden cathedral, he’d stood and watched, and stood some more. The clattering of the cobbles under his shoes was a lot harder on the heels and ankles than the soft wooden planks of a ship.  His feet seemed to have swollen to twice their size inside the hard leather of his shoes.  Around them, a long queue of Brazilians snaked up the steps and in through the great doors.  The Prince’s supplicants and subjects were waiting their turn to swear fealty to their sovereign. 

“How’s your ship for supplies?” Walker asked. 

“The first priority is water,” Ramage admitted, putting his right foot down, and wondering if he dared sit down on the marble steps in front of all these Portuguese courtiers.  “We’re down to our last few tons.” 

“I’ll ask the Admiral where we can send our watering parties, and send the directions to the _Dido._   At least rum and tobacco won’t be a problem here – nor firewood.”

“Do you think His Highness will be disposed to grant favours for us?”

“I’m sure of it,” Walker said.  “Man hasn’t stopped smiling since we got here.”    

“I want to ask him if we may grant our men a few days of liberty ashore.” 

“Ashore?” Walker goggled at him.  “They’ll desert.”  

“They aren’t stupid enough to desert here.  We’re four thousand miles from home in a country where they can’t speak the language and won’t find a job.”

Walker shook his head.  “Englishmen running riot all over Bahia – and _drunken_ Englishmen too!  No, Ramage.  His Highness likes me, but I’m no diplomat.  Bumboats it has always been for the Royal Navy, and bumboats it must be now.  Can’t afford to insult our hosts; not now, not after we’ve come all this way.” 

“Aye aye, sir,” Ramage said, reluctantly. 

“The Portuguese Navy must have something similar here for their own ships.  Bumboats are bumboats, are bumboats, the world over.”  Walker was distracted by something behind Ramage.  He raised his brows in recognition.  “Here’s your Portuguese fellow again, Ramage.” 

Ramage turned.  “Dom Rodrigo,” he said.  “Have you seen Count Orsini this evening?” 

Dom Rodrigo rushed up, and gripped Ramage by the elbow.  “What are you doing here, Captain?” 

“We’re waiting to be presented,” Ramage said. 

“Not by waiting in the line!  The Prince Regent has been _asking_ for you!  Both of you!  Come, come, come!”

“What about precedence?” Walker asked, astonished. 

“The Sovereign determines precedence!  He has asked for you.” 

Dom Rodrigo led them into a great audience chamber, thronged with courtiers, gold lace and candles.   The throng parted before them.  They entered an audience chamber, lined with people standing around the walls.  Ramage felt sweat break out under his shirt.  The multitude of candles seemed to weigh down the reek of sweat and eau de cologne.  The crowd had squeezed all the air out of the room. 

The Prince Regent was at the head of the room, the pivot of it all.  He sat on a carved chair on a low dais, surrounded by men standing.  Orsini was there, as were several of the elderly Portuguese men Ramage recognised as very senior courtiers. 

Dom Rodrigo bowed himself aside at the last moment, and then Ramage and Walker were walking on carpet toward the ruler of Portugal. 

Ramage remembered vaguely the required protocols from his first presentation at court as a very young Viscount Ramage.  He stopped and made a deep bow as he heard his name being read aloud – the major domo managing to give ‘Ramage’ the English pronunciation –  and stepped forward.  When he reached the foot of the dais, he stopped and bowed again. Walker bowed beside him. 

He could feel every eye in the room on him.  The English interlopers had looped around all the hierarchies of precedence by the favour of the Prince. 

Walker spoke in French.  “Your Highness, it is with great pleasure that I find you in a _far_ more appropriate seat than the one in which I greeted you last.”  Ramage could hear the smile in Walker’s voice.    

The Prince smiled briefly, and then covered it up again.  He replied in French. 

“Sir,” he said, formally, his blubbery lower lip trembling.  “We not only receive your congratulations with equal pleasure, We are as well pleased that it has fallen to you, the faithful servants of Our true friend and ally King George, to be the first of your countrymen to greet Us.” 

“It has been only a pleasure, Sire,” Walker said, bowing.       

“We have been touched by the kindness shown to Us in Our undertaking, and grateful that you have shown yourselves willing to strain every sinew to realize the guarantees your Sovereign offered Us.  You, Captain Walker.  Your advice and counsel has been a boon to Us at every difficult juncture. 

“I thank you, Sire,” Walker said.  

“And you, Captain Lord Ramage.  The captains of Our ships have described how you risked English blood to protect Our subjects from the servants of the Tyrant.  Such dedication, and such willing service deserves a mark of favour as a reward.” 

“Sir,” Walker said, pressing his hand to his heart.   “We did no more than any captain in His Britannic Majesty’s service would have done.  No reward is needed.”

“Nevertheless,” the Prince smiled glutinously.  “Rewards are Ours to give, and yours to receive.”

Ramage heard a stir in the crowd behind him; a surprised murmur.  Honours were being shared out – with _Englishmen?_   Orsini cleared his throat, drawing Ramage’s gaze to him sharply.  Orsini was frowning with an expression of consternation.  

“Dom Rodrigo, if you please…” the Prince said.  He was smiling at Walker; quite pleased. 

Dom Rodrigo stepped forward.  He held a sword in one hand, and he offered it hilt-first to his sovereign.  Prince Joao grasped the sword and drew it decisively from the scabbard. Another servant stepped forward and dropped a cushion on the floor in front of Walker, who seemed too stunned to comment. 

“Kneel, Captain Walker.” 

Walker knelt, looking quite dazed.  His knee reached the cushion, and the Prince raised the sword. 

 “ _Espere um momento_!” Orsini said.   “Wait!  Stop!” He sprang forward, one hand raised.

The entire audience chamber seemed to suck in a great breath.  Nobody told the Sovereign to wait!  Dom Rodrigo was standing frozen behind Orsini, as if he wanted to scream at Orsini and drag him away before he spoke again. 

“Lord Orsini!” the Prince said, turning to Orsini.  He seemed incredulous at being interrupted. 

“Forgive me, Sire!  I could not stand by while you made a most grievous error!” 

“How is it an error?” the Prince Regent demanded.  Surprise was giving way to indignation.  “Lord Selkie, you presume too much!”

“Sir!” Orsini said, doggedly.  “I have learned much about your noble House of Braganza.  All of your orders of chivalry have an origin in the true Catholic faith.”

“Of course,” the Prince said. 

“But King George requires all his servants to take oath that they are _not_ Catholic!”

“The Test Act!” Walker said, and clapped his hand to his brow.  “Ach!” 

“You can’t knight either of them, Sire.”  Orsini bowed his head, lowering his gaze.  “They would have to choose between refusing _your_ accolade, and breaking _their_ Sovereign’s command.”

The Prince Regent looked to Walker.  “This is true?”  he asked. 

Walker stood up.  “I regret that it is, Sire.” 

There was silence.  The Prince stared at Orsini.  The point of the sword sagged sadly. 

The Test Acts required every man who held public office to swear on oath that he was _not_ Catholic.  No man could hold an officer’s commission in the Army or the Royal Navy unless he took communion in the Church of England.  England was a Protestant country, ruled by a Protestant king, and defended by a Protestant Navy. Ramage’s father had done his best to get the ‘Roman Catholic Army and Navy Service Bill’ passed, but the reform had been squashed by the King himself, who refused to even read it.  

For a long moment, the Prince stared at the hilt of the sword, gleaming in the candle-light.  The blubbery lower lip moved up and down.  The effect would have been comical, if not for the fact that  hundreds of people were watching that face, silently waiting. 

Finally, the Prince turned back.  He straightened his back, and spoke crisply. 

“Lord Orsini.  Your transgression is forgiven, and instantly forgotten.”

Orsini lowered his head.  “I’m sorry.”  Whether he was speaking to the Prince or to Walker, Ramage could not tell.

“It is not Our wish to cause harm to two such excellent officers.  A different plan will have to be made.  But these are the times for the making of different plans!  And a sword, once drawn, desires not to be scabbarded again until it has completed the purpose for which is has been drawn.  Lord Orsini, you are Catholic.”

“I am, Your Highness.” 

“Then you will kneel, Lord Orsini.” 

“Sire?” Orsini said. 

"Kneel, my good Selkie." 

Orsini lowered one knee to the cushion that Walker had left. 

The Prince shifted to Portuguese.  Ramage watched as the Prince made a short speech, and an exchange of questions and answers with Orsini.  And then the sword blade dipped down to Orsini’s shoulders and over the top of his head.  The Prince smiled.  Orsini got to his feet.  A courtier stepped forward with another cushion with a glittering gold and green object on it, and the Prince Regent picked it up, and pinned it carefully to the lapel of Orsini’s Volterrani uniform.  

Orsini bowed as low as he could, and stepped backward away from the Prince Regent. 

The Prince bowed; not a deep bow, just a dip of his shoulders.  In the Court of St James, that was the signal that the audience was at an end, and the royal personage wanted to speak to someone else now. 

Ramage bowed back, and backed away, alongside Walker.  It was not done to turn one’s back on a royal, so the two of them backed away slowly, pausing to bow again when they were near to the crowd mobbing the walls.  Orsini came with them. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Ramage murmured to Walker, as the flow of Portuguese courtiers swallowed them up. 

“I’m right behind you, lad.  I've had as much as I can stomach.” 

They pressed their way out through the crowd, and onto the steps into the cool night air and the mosquitoes. 

“How do you feel, laddie?” Walker asked Orsini.  “Sir Paolo?” 

“The same,” Orsini said.  He found the star on his uniform and tilted it up to look at it.  “It’s not my first, after all.” 

“What is it?” Ramage asked. 

“The Order of St Benedict of Aviz,” Orsini said.  “But I’m not Sir Paolo, sir, because my Volterrani titles come first.  So it’s still Count Orsini.” 

“To those who have, more shall be given!” Walker said, with a sigh.  “I cannae believe it!  The Test Act!  The damn Test Act!”

“I think this was _meant_ for you, sir,” Orsini said, apologetically.

“I was nearly _Sir_ James Walker tonight,” Walker said, again.  “Hah.”

“I should go back inside, sir,” Orsini said. "He'll start asking for me again as soon as he noticed I'm gone." 

“You should go,” Ramage said.  “And I’d like to go back to my ship, if I may, Captain Walker.  I’ve had about as much pomp and circumstance as I can swallow!”

“Aye, I'll be right behind you soon,” Walker said.  “We’ve been presented, and I think that’s it for the night.  If I spot any of your officers on my way, I’ll send ‘em back to you.” 

“Good night, Captain Walker.”

“Good night, Ramage.” 

Ramage made a bow to Walker and went down the steps of the palace, weaving through the people climbing or climbing down.  He had reached the bottom of the steps and was looking out over the square, still thronged with people and carrieages, when he heard a voice calling his name. 

“Captain Ramage?” 

He turned.  There was a man trotting down the steps toward him.  He’d been standing against one of the pillars of the building’s facace. 

“ _Sim_ ,” Ramage said.  “ _Senhor?”_

“May I presume to introduce myself, sir?” 

The man spoke in English.  He was round-bellied, and the torchlight gleamed over a round face and blond hair.  He was clearly not Portuguese, this man.  “Mr Timothy O’Reilly, at your service, sir.” 

“You’re British!” Ramage said, surprised. 

“Irish by birth, sir,” the man corrected, and Ramage could hear the lilt in his voice, overlaid by many years of throaty Portuguese Rs.  “But I’ve not set foot in the British Isles these past twenty years.  I am Portuguese by naturalisation, and by marriage.”

“Ex-British, then,” Ramage said, stiffly.  “What can I do for you, sir?” 

“No, sir, what may I do for _you?_   It warms my heart to hear English voices again, and see the old flag a-flutter in the Bay.  If there is any service, any local conveniences that you might require, I would be only too glad to provide them.” 

O’Reilly bowed again, clasping his hands together in front of his chest as if hugging himself with delight. 

Ramage bowed in return.  “Thank you, Mr O’Reilly.”

“I’ve made Bahia my home these last ten years, and I’m as familiar with this city as with Dublin.  I’ll be glad to welcome you and your officers to my home to dinner.” 

“I’ll accept, gladly,” Ramage said.  “Send a note to the ship whenever it is convenient.” 

“May I be so bold as to ask if you are the same Captain Ramage we have read so much about?  The five-million francs Ramage?” 

“You receive newspapers here?” 

“Not _legally,_ no.  But men of education have ways of circumventing the censors, even here.  _Are_ you the famous Captain Ramage?”

“Yes,” Ramage said.  “I’m that Captain Ramage.”    

“Then I believe we may already share a friend in common.  I believe that an old companion of mine sails with you.  An American gentleman?”

“Thomas Jackson?”  Ramage asked, surprised. 

 _“That’s_ his name!” O’Reilly smiled warmly.  “Yes, of course!  May I presume on you to carry him a message for me?”

Ramage had been sure no-one outside the _Dido_ knew of Jackson's presence. "How do you know Mr Jackson?" he asked.  

“We met in the company of Mr Algernon Foxcroft of Baltimore.  Do ask him if he remembers me?  My name is Timothy O'Reilly.  I would value the chance to speak to someone who recalls those times.”

“Why don’t you come with me?” Ramage offered.  “I’m on my way back to the ship now, as it happens.  You can come and meet him yourself.”    

“Ah, alas, I regret I’m still to be presented to the Prince tonight,” O’Reilly’s face rumpled with dismay.  “But you’ll be passing my message?  Mr Foxcroft, of Baltimore.  And _my_ name is O’Reilly.”   

“Yes, of course I will.” 

“I will see you another day, to be sure.  Another day.”  O’Reilly touched his hat, and bowed himself away in the direction of the steps. 

* * *

 

Ramage found a Portuguese boat that could row him back to the _Dido._   All his own boats had gone back to the ship at nightfall, according to his own Standing Orders, but he was able to communicate with the Brazilian boatman by holding up a half-crown and pointing to the _Dido_. 

He climbed back into the ship to the squeal of his salute, and met Southwick there, his hand at his hat.

“Is everything well, sir?” Southwick asked. 

“All’s well, Mr Southwick.  Is everyone back aboard?” 

“All back, except Mr Orsini, sir.” 

“Mr Orsini has other duties tonight,” Ramage said.  “I suspect he’ll sleep at the Palace.” 

Ramage suddenly could not bear to be on his aching feet a minute longer.  He was sure his ankles were swelling up like melons from the concussion of the Bahian cobbles.  He began to walk aft toward his own cabin. 

“Also, all the Portuguese have gone ashore, sir,” Southwick said.  He fell into pace at Ramage’s side as Ramage walked aft to his cabin, and around the inert wheel.    “We’ve had a few boats with longshoremen, but with so many ships to serve at the same time …” 

“We won’t be allowed to send the men ashore on liberty,” Ramage said.  “Tell the men – hmm, no, I’ll tell them myself tomorrow.  Good night, Mr Southwick.”  He paused at Jackson’s door to bang on it with his fist; their signal that he wanted a few words with him without the formality of sending a verbal summons.

“Good night, sir.” 

Ramage returned the salute of the sentry, and walked into his own cabin.  He unbuckled his sword and put it on the table, slings and all, with his hat on top of it.  He walked straight aft to the great cabin, unwinding his stock and shrugging himself out of his coat, and threw both over the back of the settee. 

 “God in heaven, the sooner the Navy adopts trousers for uniform, the better!”  he complained to no-one. 

He sat down heavily on the settee, and set his left toe to the heel of his right shoe, and levered the shoe off.  He repeated the act with the other shoe.  He had just undone the first set of buttons at the knees of his breeches, when there was a knock at the door. 

“I heard a knocking, without?”  Jackson said.   

“Sit,” Ramage said.  He gestured to the armchair opposite him.  “Please excuse my state of undress.  I’ve been standing around looking militantly English all day, and my feet are about to fall off.” 

“I have seen your feet before,” Jackson grinned.  He sat down in the armchair. 

“I have remarkable news for you.  I ran into a fellow who says he knows you.”

Jackson raised his brows.  “Knows _me,_ sir?” 

“He asked after you.  He said you would remember him as a friend of a Mr Foxcroft of Baltimore.”  Ramage had recited the phrase to himself in the boat over to the _Dido_ , so that he did not forget either the name or the city.  “He _said_ you would know him.” 

“I don’t.” 

Ramage was surprised to see that Jackson’s face had gone tight and stiff.  “Is something wrong?” 

“No, sir, not at all,” Jackson said, but even in the yellow cast of the candlelight Ramage was sure his face had gone pale under his tan.  The blood had gone from his lips, leaving them white and thin. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Ramage said.  “Are you feeling quite well?” 

“Just a passing chill,” Jackson said.  His voice was level.  “What was this fellow’s name?” 

“O’Reilly,” Ramage said. 

“That’s not Portuguese.”

“No, he’s Irish,” Ramage explained.  “Or he was.  He said he was married to a Portuguese wife.  You don’t recall him?” 

“No, sir,” Jackson said, with a one-shouldered shrug. 

“Or Mr Foxcroft?”

“Never heard of either of them.” 

“Strange that he knew you,” Ramage said.  “I was sure nobody knew you were here."

"Somebody talked out of turn," Jackson said. 

"Well, it certainly wasn't _me,"_ Ramage said.  "Certainly nobody in the Royal Navy knows you're here.  You've asked me to keep your name out of my despatches, and I have.  But O'Reilly knew there was an American in this ship.” 

“There are many Americans, in many ships,” Jackson said.  “And Jackson is a common name.  He must have me confused with someone else.” 

Ramage had been paying more attention to Jackson’s face than usual these last few weeks.  He had learned that Jackson never showed _any_ reactions on his face that he did not intend.  He had also learned to see when Jackson was intentionally showing nothing at all.  That blank studious look right there was Jackson lying by omission. 

"Does this have anything to do with those questions I promised not to ask?"

"No." 

“Well," Ramage said. “If I see him again, I’ll tell him he has the wrong man, and you don’t know him.” 

“Thank you,” Jackson said. 

 "It’s late.  I believe I’ll turn in, now.”

“I will, as well,” Jackson said.  He pressed his palms to his knees, pushing himself back up to his feet.  The candle cast heavy shadows around the cabin.  He looked tired, suddenly; and not merely the temporal tiredness of a late night. 

“It’s late,” Ramage agreed.  “Shout for Silkin on your way out, will you?” 

 


	21. At anchor

Fruit!  _Fresh fruit!_ So much fresh fruit!   

The local people had sent fruit in the bumboats – and such sweet fruit!  These were the sweetest, juiciest oranges Ramage had ever tasted.   He ate fruit after fruit, until his chin and fingers were sticky. He could feel every mouthful of sweet flesh flooding life back into his body, feel the juice refilling his sea-parched veins.  Such luxury!  Such life!  

And fresh water!  Another luxury!   The _Dido's_ boats were sent off at first light, with a Portuguese guide to show them where to get water.  The first ton of water was broached immediately, by Ramage’s order.  The _Dido_ had all the water they could drink – warm, sweet, refreshing water – and all the fruit they could eat, and rum, and tobacco, and fresh meat would come too in due course.  Such luxury, after months at sea!    

His fingers were sticky, and he dipped his hands into the water in his wash-basin, and ran his wet palms over his face. Sweet, fresh water! 

There was a knock at the door.  “Come in!” he shouted. 

It was Kenton and Southwick. 

“Sir,” Kenton said.  “We have a question regarding your standing orders.”

 _“Both_ of you?” Ramage asked, surprised.  He dried his hands on his towel, and dropped it next to his basin. 

“It concerns your coxswain,” Southwick said.  “By which I mean both of them, sir.”

“Yes?” 

“Does your previous private arrangement with Jackson apply also to Stafford, sir?”  Kenton asked. 

“My private arrangement?”

“Yes, sir,” Southwick said.  “The understanding that Jackson is allowed to use the ship’s boats when he wants to go ashore.  Under his own authority.  Kenton does not believe that it was just a private arrangement between you, since Jackson is… since he was…” Southwick glanced at Kenton. 

“That’s not a private arrangement,” Ramage said.  “He was my coxswain.  That was part of his job.” 

 “No, it isn’t, sir!” Southwick looked incredulous.   “Taking the boats is one of the _wardroom_ privileges!  But every port we stop in, Jackson will take a boat and go ashore for a few hours on his own.  Ever since the _Kathleen._   You must have noticed, sir?”    

 “He told _me_ it was one of the privileges of the captain’s coxswain,” Ramage said, irritated.  “In the _Kathleen.”_  

 “No, sir,” Southwick insisted.  “But he’s _Jackson_ , sir.  And everyone knows that he’s … well…”

 “We thought we knew… only now we _don’t_ know,” Kenton said. 

 Damn Jackson!  

“The answer is no," Ramage said. "Absolutely not!  I don’t know where Jackson went, but our friend _Stafford_ will only rush to the nearest tavern.  Or the nearest steam engine!  Jackson can carry on, but not Stafford!” 

"So it was a private arrangement, sir?" 

"No, it wasn't," Ramage said. "But now that arrangement doesn't apply to Stafford.

 “Aye aye, sir,” Southwick said, saluting. 

 “Thank you, sir, That’s cleared it up,” Kenton said, and then spoiled the effect of his words by adding, _“… somewhat,_ anyway.”

* * *

 

 Orsini walked down the narrow streets toward the docks.  Dom Rodrigo was close on his heels, as usual.  He was a little nettled to find Dom Rodrigo still following him around.  Clearly, Dom Rodrigo intended to stick to the Lord Nominee of Volterra like a burr, wherever he went.  Everything Orsini said and did was being transmitted back to Dom Joao. 

“Will you come ashore this evening, and go to Mass with His Highness?” Dom Rodrigo asked. 

“Yes, if I can,” Orsini said. 

“You know, you could hear Mass every week, if you wanted,” Dom Rodrigo said. 

“How?”

“By staying here,” Dom Rodrigo said. 

“No.”

Salvador de Bahia was built lengthwise, along two levels of an escarpment.  If you were fit, you could walk down the steep cobbled streets, from the churches, palaces and grand houses up top, to the docks, factories and warehouses below.  If you were not fit, a  mule-drawn elevator, operated by Jesuits, provided a short cut between the two levels.  Orsini was fit, and wanted to be fitter, and so he walked. 

“You could join the Portuguese Navy,” Dom Rodrigo said.  “And the Test Act would not be an impediment to your career, in the Portuguese Navy.  In the Portuguese Navy, you could rise to exalted rank.” 

“The Test Act is not an impediment to me,” Orsini said.  “I have a plan.”

“You should consider it, anyway,” Dom Rodrigo said.  “The Prince Regent likes you.  He enjoys your company!  He will shower you with signs of his favour.  There may even be an advantageous marriage for you, with a suitable bride of good fortune.”

“I am already engaged to be married to a Neapolitan princess,” Orsini said.  He kept walking

“Dom Paolo…”

“Dom Rodrigo,” Orsini said.  He turned, and stopped the older man with a hand on his arm.  “I am the Lord of the Selkies, and your master would have me set aside my sealskin and stay with him?  Tell him that my answer is No."

"My master could give you all you desire."

"I already do what I desire the most.  And all my friends are English – all my adopted family are English, men I love as my fathers.  Thank your master for me – but my answer is No.  I cannot, and I will not.” 

 _"Lord Orsini!  Lord Orsini!"_ a voice interrupted. 

Orsini turned. 

A portly older man was approaching, with a slave at his side carrying his parasol.  "It is Lord Orsini, I believe?  I saw you at the Prince's side last night?"

"I am," Orsini said.  "Who do I have the honour to be addressing?" 

"My name is O'Reilly, at your service."  The stranger bowed. 

For a moment the name, spoken in Portuguese, did not make sense to Orsini.  "O'Reilly?"

"Born in Ireland, my lord," O'Reilly said.  "And a naturalised Portuguese subject.  I wonder, are you on your way to your ship?"

"I am," Orsini said.  He had messages for Uncle Nicholas from Captain Walker. 

"Would you do me the small service of delivering a message for me, to a dear friend I believe to be on board?" 

"Of course?"

"His name is Thomas Jackson."

"I do know him!" Orsini said, surprised.  "I know him very well, in fact.  He's a dear friend!"

O'Reilly smiled.  "I knew him years ago, and I believe this is the first time in many years I've had the chance to meet with him.  Will you tell him that Senhor Timothy O'Reilly is here, and would be so pleased to receive a call from him?  I have here a card with my home address?"

"Nothing is too difficult for such a dear friend as Senhor Jackson!" Orsini said.  "Why don't you come out to the ship?  You can call on him yourself." 

"Oh, no, I couldn't," O'Reilly said, quickly. 

 _Mal de mer,_ Orsini guessed.  Irishmen were enough like Englishmen not to want to admit to it.  It was hard to imagine getting sick at anchor, but he'd heard of it.  He smiled.  "Then I will put your card into his hand directly."  

"I thank you for your kindness," O'Reilly bowed again.  "I will not intrude any more into your time, gentlemen.  I bid you a good day."  And he was bowing himself away. 

"Who was that?" Orsini asked. 

"You assume that I know?" Dom Rodrigo asked. 

"I assume it's your _job_ to know."

Dom Rodrigo managed to crack a smile.  "There's only one Irishman in the city.  He's a naturalised Portuguese subject, married to a Portuguese wife, who has since passed on.  He's been here since the late Nineties.  And very well respected in the city.  Makes his money from sugar, if I recall correctly."

"Rich?"

"Quite."

 

* * *

Jackson knocked on the great cabin door, and went inside.  He found Ramage sitting at the table, staring into a bowl of fruit as if he was wondering if he could fit another one inside himself. 

“If you eat too many of those you’ll get sick, sir,” Jackson warned.  “Too much raw fruit unbalances the humours.” 

Ramage waved off his warning without looking up.  “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” 

“I have work for you to sign, sir,” Jackson said.  “Receipts, mostly.”  He set the forms down in front of Ramage. 

Ramage pushed the fruit bowl away, and unscrewed his inkwell.  He dipped his pen in the ink, tapped the quill to drip off the excess ink, and scratched his signature on the first form.  He set the first aside to air dry. 

“Don’t tell me you’re doing _that_ again?” Jackson said.  “You could be confessing to murdering the Princes in the Tower, for all you know!” 

“Am I?”  Dip the quill – tap the nib – sign.  Put the paper aside to dry. 

“No, but…” 

“Well, then, there we go,”  Ramage grinned up at him. 

Jackson sighed, and gave up. 

Dip the quill – tap the nib – sign.  Put the paper aside to dry. 

There was a knock at the door.  _“Master’s mate Orsini, sah!”_ bellowed the Marine. 

“Come in!” Ramage called. 

The young man came in, with his hat under his arm.  He still wore the glossy Volterrani uniform, but he’d taken the time to shave. 

 “Captain, sir,” Orsini saluted.  “I apologise for not coming back last night, sir.  The Prince Regent kept me until late.” 

“I didn’t expect you would,” Ramage said.   

"I have come with an urgent message from Captain Walker," Orsini said.  "The Prince Regent has decided to visit the _Bedford_ and _Dido_ this week.  In order to thank us all for our assistance in bringing him here safely.”

"A royal visit?” Ramage asked. 

“Yes, sir,” Orsini said.  “With his family.  Excluding the Queen, I assume, because she’s still… well.  You’ve _seen_ her.” 

Jackson hadn’t seen Maria the Mad, but he’d heard enough about her.  England wasn’t the only country in Europe with a Prince Regent ruling in place of a mad monarch. 

“When?” Ramage asked. 

“Tomorrow, sir.  The formal letter will arrive shortly.” 

“The men’s entertainment will have to be called off, sir,” Jackson said, looking at Ramage.    

“I’ll make it clear their fun is being delayed, not cancelled,” Ramage said. 

“And you’ll have to post-pone that dinner with the captain of the _Santa Catarina.”_

He leaned over, and opened Ramage’s diary – not Ramage’s diary, but the diary Jackson was keeping _for_ him.  If he was going to be called a secretary, he might as well _be_ one  – and he knew that Ramage would forget anything he wasn't reminded about regularly.  

“Yes,” Ramage said.  “No.  Wait… I’ll send the captain a letter inviting _him_ to the royal visit.  That’ll kill two birds with one stone.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“And I was planning to visit Monsieur Pascal,” Ramage added.  “I still don't know where the Portuguese have put his men.”

“I can find out where Mr Pascal is, sir,” Orsini offered.  “But now I’m expected back in the _Bedford_ with your reply, sir?”

“Yes, of course,” Ramage said. "Tell Walker we'll be pleased to welcome the Prince Regent.”   

“Aye aye, sir.”  Orsini got up to leave, and saluted.  “Mr Jackson, I have news for you too.”

“For me?”  Jackson looked at the young man.  His blood ran cold. 

“I met a man who says he knows you.  A man called Mr O’Reilly.  He sent his card, and asked you to call on him.” 

“I don’t know him,” Jackson said, quickly.  He closed his attention on his face, freezing his cheeks and eyes in position, so that his sudden sense of horror did not show.

“You don’t _want_ to know him,” Ramage observed. 

Ramage had a wretched habit of leaping in the dark to the right conclusions, Jackson thought, annoyed.  He turned his head to stare at Ramage. He closed Ramage’s diary with his left hand, without looking at it. 

“I never said that.”

“You don’t have to say it,” Ramage said.  “I can see it on your face.  Pull your horns in, man!” 

“Sir?” Orsini was looking between them.  

“It’s all right, Paolo.  If you see Mr O’Reilly again, tell him you know nothing.”

“Aye … _aye..._ sir?” Orsini said – the correct reply to an order, but drawn out to show that he really didn’t understand the reason for the order.  His dark eyes were confused.  

“You’re dismissed," Ramage said.  "My regards to Captain Walker, and tell him I’ll be along tonight to discuss the royal visit.”

“Aye aye, sir.”  Orsini saluted. 

The second he had gone, Ramage turned to Jackson.   “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing, sir.”  He kept his face still, but the hairs on the backs of his arms were still standing up. 

“There’s something!” Ramage insisted.  “I can see it on your face.  You know this man.  And he scares you.  What’s going on?” 

“Nothing, sir.  Nothing.” 

“He’s asking a lot of questions for _nothing!”_ Ramage said.  “Last night, and now again?  He does have the right man, doesn’t he?”

“Sir,” Jackson pushed his chair back.  He stood slowly.  He could feel the dread closing in around him; his secrets stripped away, leaving him naked under Ramage’s eyes.  “You gave your word that you would _not_ poke into my business…” 

He saw the anger flash in Ramage’s brown eyes.  For a moment he thought the Captain would leap to his feet and start shouting.  For a moment he tensed himself for a repeat of Christmas Day, feeling sick at the thought – and then Ramage jerked his face to one side, and squeezed his eyes shut tightly. 

“I forgot,” Ramage said. 

“I know,” Jackson said.  His mouth was dry.  He could feel his solitude bearing down on his shoulders; the armour that had protected him so long now a prison.  He had borne his solitude so long he did not know how to break it. 

 “I don’t want to push,” Ramage said.  “I don’t want to know.  Whatever your past is…”

“It’s mine to worry about,” Jackson said, quietly. 

Ramage nodded. 

“May I be excused, Captain?”

“Yes, of course.” 

Jackson left the cabin, and walked out onto the quarterdeck, feeling his chest tighten.  He walked to the rail, but the sea breeze didn’t loosen the feeling of suffocation.  The women ignored him, seeing his grey hair and lined face, and he ignored them.  He gripped the hammocks that lined the rail, and stared out at the anchorage. 

He could feel the noose closing in on him – dragging him down into hell.   

He had thought he would never hear the name of Algernon Foxcroft again.  He had thought Foxcroft was long dead, and forgotten – and yet last night he had heard the name on Ramage’s lips. 

For a moment, he saw the flames of burning ships all around him; the thump of heavy artillery.  For a moment, his mind was blank, overwhelmed by the memory.  He saw nothing, heard nothing, sensed nothing but the sounds and smells of fire and fear.  

His secrets were all coming to life around him; rising from their graves like ghosts. 

He remembered the moment of finding the Round Robin; the moment of staring down at that sheet of paper in his hands in the half-dark cabin, reading his own past.  He remembered the sudden realization that he was trapped in secrets, that others were talking about him.  He remembered his panic, and his feeling of betrayal that Ramage – sweet, unsubtle _Ramage,_ of all people – had suddenly learned to lie to him. 

All his secrets were coming out of their graves, and now Foxcroft was rising with them, and he did not know what to do to force them back down again. 

He was alone; he had always been alone, but he had never felt so alone in his life…

 

 

* * *

 

 Ramage took the air on the quarterdeck.  He pretended not to see the women in loose dresses, laughing and scampering on the decks, arm-in-arm with the seamen.  The sailors pretended not to see him. 

His smart warship had changed overnight into a crowded marketplace.  Her whole port side was swarming with boats, and all her lower gun ports were open.  They could hear a cacophony of noise; shouting and swearing.  The boatmen were trying to get their women into the ship.  The boatswain’s mates were standing on the ship’s rail, pointing into the boats, picking prostitutes for the ship.  The chosen women climbed aboard; the rejected ones screamed and swore, adding to the racket.

Ramage preferred to send his men on leave if he could – but if he could not, this was the only way.  No officer dreamed of preventing it – one might as well try to ban the daily rum ration, as to keep sailors from women.  The men’s rights were laid down in a tradition as solid as law.  Ramage knew that the open gun decks below them would already be one long brothel.  With no privacy, and no fuss, the men and their whores would fornicate publicly between the great guns.  Months of celibacy were being broken today in one wild spasm of raw sex. 

He leaned his forearms on the high arched taffrail, under the gilded Baroque monstrosity of the ship’s lanthorne.  He could see the pretty tiled roofs from the ship, but he knew that the city was remarkably dirty from close up.  The black mould of the tropics was creeping up the walls; half the woodwork was rotten into long cracks.  Even from this anchorage he could smell the city; clogged gutters; rotten fruit, and rich fungus.

 “We have a new arrival, sir!”  Martin said.  He was standing on the deck a few feet away.  He was staring through his glass.  “Sir,  she’s flying the Union Jack!”   

“One of ours?  Here?” Ramage said.  He fetched his own glass from the drawer in the binnacle, and opened it as he walked to join Martin. 

"There, sir!  On the other side of the _Alfonso."_  

A set of topmasts were moving beyond the lattice of rigging in the crowded anchorage.  A new arrival was winding her way through the anchored ships under topsails only.  As her hull came into sight, he recognised her purple strake.   “It’s the _Amethyst!”_  

“It’s Mr Yorke, sir!  Safe and sound!” Martin said. 

News of the _Amethyst_ ’s arrival was quickly shouted down the main hatch.  Ramage watched through his telescope as the _Amethyst_ anchored neatly.  She’d also been battered by the storm.  Her figurehead had lost an arm, and her sails had been patched, but her spars were intact, and she wasn’t pumping. 

“Have my boat’s crew mustered!” Ramage ordered.  “I’m going across, as soon as her yards are squared away.”   

“Aye aye sir!” 

An hour later,  Ramage went up the _Amethyst’_ s side. 

Sidney Yorke came forward to meet him.  “Nicholas!” They shook hands.  Yorke was grinning.  “We hoped you’d be here!” 

“Yes, we were starting to wonder if you’d got lost!” 

“We reached Brazil before you did!  We fell in with the _Medusa_ frigate after the storm, and stopped off at Recife on our way down.” 

Without discussion, both men were already crab-stepping together toward the awnings that the _Amethyst’_ s sailors were spreading over the decks.  Senhora Isabella was standing by the after companionway, fanning her face and watching. 

“I thought you would land your passengers in Recife?” Ramage said. 

“Oh, I did.  All ashore, safe and sound, and very grateful.” 

“But…”  Ramage’s eyes went to Madame Cardenas. 

“Oh, I’m not landing _this_ passenger,” Yorke said, and burst out into a laugh.  “Not ever!” 

Senhora Cardenas came forward to meet Ramage.  She closed her fan, and curtseyed politely to Ramage.  “How do you do?”

“How do you do?” Ramage said, bowing. 

Yorke laughed again; a rolling burble of happiness and mischief. 

“What’s so funny?” Ramage asked. 

“You remember, just before we parted company, you were telling me to _carpe puellam?”_

“Er…” Ramage’s eyes turned to Madame Cardenas.

“Well, I did!  I took your advice, Nick!  And we're getting married!" 

“You _what?”_  

“We are getting married,” Madame Cardenas said. 

“I asked Isabella ten miles out from Recife, and she said yes!” Yorke burbled.  He beckoned to his Senhora, and she slipped in against his side.  His arm tucked around her waist, comfortably snuggling her against his body. 

“But we didn't want to get married in Recife," Yorke said.  “ _Carpe puellam!_   Grab that woman, you said!  And I did!  I would _never_ have acted, if not for your advice!"

“Right,” Ramage said, weakly.  “I did, didn’t I?" 

That wasn’t what Ramage had meant by _Carpe puellam!_   _Seize_ the woman, not _marry_ her!  How did one get that message so wildly crossed? 

"That's why we're here.  I have to ask you a very serious question.  Nicholas – will you be my best man?” 

“Wait, hang on – _what?”_

 “That is not sound like ‘yes.’” Isabella said, worriedly, turning her huge eyes toward Yorke. 

“No, no, that was a yes!” Yorke nodded vigorously.  “He’s happy for us, sweets!  He’s just surprised, aren’t you, Nick? Relieve her concern now, Nick, and say yes? You'll do it? Say yes?” 

A tiny note of anxiety was beginning to edge into Yorke’s voice, and Ramage realized that he was upsetting Yorke. 

He knew how it felt to find love. He knew how one’s spirits soared aloft on pink bubbling clouds of joy, joy and more joy. He could never pour cold water on that joy.

“Yes, of course!” Ramage said.   “I’ll be honoured to be your best man!” 

The anxiety evaporated.  “There, you see?” Yorke said to Isabella.  “I told you he’d be happy for us!” 

“I _am_ happy for you, Sidney!"  

“And you'll take the good news back to the _Dido_ for us, too?” Yorke asked. 

“All of Sidney’s friends in your ship will be inviting to the wedding too,” Isabella added. 

“I’ll pass the word,” Ramage said.  “They’ll probably fight over who gets to attend the ceremony.”

“Everybody to attend,” Isabella said. 

“Everybody’s invited,” Yorke agreed.  “The more the merrier!  And I’ve never felt so merry in my whole life!” 

“I’m sure you haven’t…”  Ramage grinned.  "Well _done,_ both of you!" 

Yorke and Isabella invited him to a cold lunch, in a cabin which anyone could see they had been sharing for weeks. The two little girls were at the table as well, and eager to talk to the big English captain in his blue-and-gold uniform. 

After the meal, Isabella excused herself from the table, and swept her daughters away with her.   The ladies were withdrawing, even if it was merely to clean the mushy peas out of the three-year-old's hair.  Yorke watched them go with paternal affection; the proud step-father, as well as the fiancee. 

“I know what people are going to say,” Yorke said, as soon as the door was closed.  “We’ve only known each other a few months.” 

“The idea did occur to me.” 

“But, I thought to myself, if they say things about it, I will point to you and Sarah.  _You_ only knew Sarah a few months when you married her.  And you met Sarah at sea, too!”

“That’s true,” Ramage said, grinning at his friend. 

No wonder all those young ladies in Jamaica had been disappointed!  They’d danced and flirted and fluttered their eyelashes at handsome Captain Yorke, without success.  The fluttering blondes had been wasting  their time: what Yorke had been looking for all along was a tall Portuguese widow with a lean face and black El Greco eyes.

“Where will you set up house?”

“At sea, naturally,” Yorke said. 

“At sea!” 

“I’m not in the Navy!” Yorke pointed out.  “I own my own ship.  My wife will sail with me.” 

“Does _she_ know that?” 

“Of course.  In fact, I wonder if she hasn’t half fallen in love with my ship, as much as with me!”

“We always knew that any wife who marries _you_ will have to love sea voyages as much as you do!” Ramage said. He raised his glass to Yorke.  “You are a lucky man!” 

“I am the luckiest man who ever lived!”  Yorke raised his glass.  “Not a moment’s seasickness.  I’ve already started teaching her how bills of lading and charters work.  She has a fine head on her shoulders.  And when we fell in with that privateer, she was right at my side…” 

 _“What_ privateer?” Ramage asked, sharply, lowering his glass without drinking. He stared at Yorke, chills running down his back. 

“We _think_ she was a privateer, and I didn't stick around to find out.  She didn't chase us, but she had great big shot holes down her sides.  She didn’t chase us, but she just didn’t _look_ like a Portuguese ship.  In fact, she looked rather like…” 

“A St Malo privateer,” Ramage said.  His mind flew to its conclusion; an intuitive leap in the dark.  He didn’t know, but he knew.  “And she was a topsail schooner, with white mastheads, and a blue strake.”

“How did you know?” 

Ramage had spent too many hours looking at that ship through his telescope.  It seemed like a massive coincidence, but here she was.  The chills were running down his back.

“She’s called the _Diligente,_ out of St Malo,” he said.  “Her captain is our old friend Robert Kerguelen.  And _I_ put those holes in her sides, myself…”

 

 


	22. A search for a church

 

On the third day after going ashore, the Prince Regent paid a visit to the Bedford and the Dido.  He was treated to a dinner in the Bedford, and then toured the Dido from top to bottom.  He was impressed by the ships; impressed by the cleanliness of them, and their big guns, and even more impressed by the men who sailed them.  For their part, the Didos looked back at the prince they had heard so much about with curiosity, tempered with pride in their ship. 

The day after the royal visit, Ramage went ashore with Yorke and Isabella to find a church. 

He realized that it was a harder job than he had expected.  Churches, Salvador had in plenty; willing priests, not so much.  At each church, Isabella walked up to the chancel to talk to the clergy there.  Most of the priests looked at the two English sailors lurking Britannically in the nave, jumped to conclusions, and looked disgusted.  This was the fifth church they had visited so far this morning. 

"God, she's beautiful," Yorke whispered. 

Ramage looked at his friend, affectionately.  The light from the stained-glass windows above them fell across his face, and gave him a blue-and-gold cheek.   He was watching Isabella, who was in front of the altar and talking earnestly to another priest.  

"You're a lucky man," Ramage said. 

"God, I hope my family likes her."

"They will." 

"Alexis is going to hate her.  She's going to think Isabella is only after my money!"  Yorke turned worried eyes to Ramage.  "She's going to think Isabella is a threat to her future."

"Well, that's easily solved!" Ramage said. 

"How?" 

"Give Alexis a share of the company."

 _"Give her_ part of the company!" Yorke stared at him. 

"A fifth," Ramage said.  "That would give her one whole ship, all to herself.  Hers, as freehold.  That way she won't see Isabella as a threat."  

"But it's _mine!_   My grandfather left it to _me,_ not to her!"   

"Well, if you'd rather have your own little Bonaparte _versus_ Beauharnais feud going on, that's your choice," Ramage said.  "At least you've _got_ a sister."

The priest was going back through the little door behind the pulpit.  Isabella was coming back down the aisle toward them.  

“Any luck, sweets?” Yorke asked. 

She smiled, and then she grinned, and then she laughed, and clapped her hands to her face, and nodded her head at her fiancee.   

“He’ll do it?”  Yorke asked, delighted.  

“He will!  On Saturday, after nooning.  And flowers and reception are for us.  But he will do it!” 

“We’re getting married!”  Yorke wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her. 

Isabelle wrapped her arms around him.  “I must tell the girls!” 

“Remember what I promised,” Yorke said, pulling back a little and looking down into her eyes.  “Frederico will _always_ be their father.  Make sure they know that?” 

“I know,” she said. 

She withdrew from him a little, and he let her go.  She grinned at Ramage, as if embarrassed that she had forgotten that he was there. 

“Come on,” she said.  “We go find dinner now.”  

“As milady wishes,” Ramage said. 

They left the shadows and frankincense, and walked out into the sunlight.  The hubbub of Salvador embraced them, and they walked down the steps of the church and plunged into the bustling streets. The city had been celebrating the arrival of the Prince for days, and the streets were still thronged with people. Ramage suspected that they were trying to show their gaiety to the Prince in an attempt to persuade him not to move his court to Rio de Janeiro, as Orsini said he was planning to do.

A street urchin was sidling up.  He must have recognised Isabella as Portuguese, because he suggested something in a weird reedy falsetto, holding out one hand.  His eyes were slitted narrow, calculating. 

 _“Nao,”_ Yorke said. 

The brat ignored him, and focused on Isabella, identifying her as Portuguese.  He tried to sidle around Yorke, and repeated his words in the same creepy falsetto.   

 _“Nao!”_ Yorke barked.  He thrust himself forward, parking himself between the brat and his lady.  _“Nao!_   Get lost!”  His hand went to his sword hilt.  

The brat thought better of messing with two big angry Englishmen.  He probably had a knife hidden in his filthy shirt, but Yorke and Ramage both wore their swords.  He slithered away, muttering something that sounded like a curse at Isabella.  

Ramage glanced at Isabella, in time to catch the expression on her face.  Yorke harrumphed angrily, and Isabella wrapped her arms around his elbow.  Her face had gone red, and she nipped her lower lip in her teeth, as she looked up at Yorke.     

Ramage bit down a laugh.  He’d seen that look before.  He’d received that look before! 

The last scrap of his anxiety disappeared. Yorke's whirlwind romance might not be _proper_ , he thought, but at least it was mutual.  Madame Cardenas was as excited by her fiancee as he was by her.  She was staring up at Sidney Yorke as if he was the picture of erotic masculinity.  

Ramage looked away, embarrassed.    He looked around the square instead. 

Salvador was a whirl of bright sunlight and cobblestones.  The streets and squares sloped steeply down to the sea, and Ramage marvelled at the sedan chairs being carried through the streets. 

Sedan chairs were rare in London these days – the city was getting too big to make them practical.  How the devil did the chair-men climb up the steep streets in this heat every day?  They must be superhuman – or more likely they were slaves, he realized. 

What a strange place this city this was!  Salvador was built reaching for the sky, but weighed down with venality.  The architecture was glorious, but he had already noticed that the lower storey of every house was full of slave cells.  The sun shone, the people sang – but he had been warned never to walk alone after dark. The Bay was beautiful, but could not be swum because of the sharks that swarmed in the wake of the slave ships.  The Bahians lived in endless fear of the slaves that made them rich.  Salvador was beautiful, he thought, but it was hard to escape the atmosphere of breathing dread. 

His attention was drawn to a sedan chair that had suddenly changed direction toward him.  The chair-men set it down carefully, and a man climbed out.  Ramage recognised the portly O’Reilly. 

“Captain Ramage, sir!” O’Reilly said, walking forward.  “What a pleasant surprise to meet you here!” 

“Mr O’Reilly,” Ramage said.   He returned O’Reilly’s bow. 

O’Reilly’s bow was quite formal, not the more flowing movement that gentlemen were practicing in London these days but an old-fashioned bow, like Jackson might have given if he hadn’t adopted handshakes.

“May I make known to you my particular friend, Mr Sidney Yorke, and his fiancee Madame Cardenas?  Sidney, Mr O’Reilly.” 

“Your servant, sir,” O’Reilly bowed to Yorke, who returned it.  “Madam.  I trust you are enjoying the hospitality of our city?” 

“Very much, thank you,” Yorke agreed.  His eyes flicked to Ramage quizzically, and Ramage wondered what it was about his own demeanour that had warned Yorke that there was something odd about O’Reilly.  “You live here in Brazil, Mr O’Reilly?” 

“I do,” O’Reilly agreed.  “I am a naturalized Portuguese subject, and ‘tis rare music  to hear my mother tongue spoken again.  I explained to Captain Ramage that any small comforts that you need, I can most certainly arrange for you.”

“I may make use of your services,” Yorke said, coming right down to business.  “I am considering opening a factory here.”   

“Then allow me to give you my card, sir.”  O’Reilly darted a hand into his coat pocket, and drew out a visiting card.  “Captain Ramage, when last I spoke to you, I asked about my friend from America?” 

“I regret you do not have the right man,” Ramage lied.  “I asked him about you, but he confessed that the name Algernon Foxcroft rang no bells.  There must be a lot of men named Thomas Jackson in South Carolina.  Sorry, but you have the wrong man."   

“Undoubtedly,” O’Reilly said, smiling warmly at Ramage.  “Ah, well, no matter.” 

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Ramage said.  

“Gentlemen,” O’Reilly bowed.  “I regret I must excuse myself.  I have appointments.  May I recommend the local spirit, Cachaça?  It is made from sugar cane.  As sailors, you may find the comparison with rum interesting.” 

“We’ll try it,” Ramage promised. 

They watched O’Reilly return to his sedan chair. 

 _“No-o-oh,_ we won’t,” Ramage said, softly. 

“Nor I,” Yorke admitted.  “I’ll have to warn my officers to keep a weather eye out for it.  And what was that about Jackson?  You were lying.” 

“How can you tell?” 

“Because I _know_ you too well, Nick!   You stop blinking when you’re lying.”

“He asked after Jackson before, but Jackson said he doesn’t know anyone called O’Reilly.  I think Jackson’s lying, so I lied too.  If Jackson doesn’t want to be found, _I’m_ not going to discover him. Shipmates should stick together, you know. ”   

He was struck by the urge to tell Yorke all about Jackson’s revelations, but he clamped his teeth shut on the urge.  Yorke was probably his dearest friend in the world, but Jackson’s past was Jackson’s story.  Ramage had promised not to ask any more questions – and implicit in his promise had been his silence. 

“How did O’Reilly find out there was a man called Jackson in the _Dido?”_   Yorke asked. 

"I don't know," Ramage said.

“Jackson?” Isabella asked.  “He is a friend?” 

“Yes,” Yorke said.  “Remember I told you about my ship the _Topaz_ , and how she was sunk in the hurricane?  Well, Jackson was with Nicholas in his ship, the _Triton_.  He’s a good man, if rather mysterious.” 

“You will bring him to the wedding on Saturday,” she said to Ramage, imperiously adding Jackson to her guest list. 

“I’ll bring him to the wedding,” Ramage said.  “Sidney, Miss Isabella, I regret I have to make my escape.  I’ve another appointment.”

“By all means!”  Yorke said.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It was time to go, Ramage got up off the bench, finding that the tropical heat and the damp stone had combined to leave the seat of his breeches damp. 

“Miss Isabella,” he bowed to Isabella.  “I hope to see you again before you become _Mrs Yorke_ , but if not, I will see you at the wedding.  Sidney, adieu.”

* * *

The search for the privateer that Yorke had seen had been fruitless. 

"The frigate _Medusa_ patrolled up and down for two days," Orsini reported the Portuguese Admiral's words.  "And saw nothing."

"The _Diligente_ might be hiding offshore," Ramage said. 

"And the harbour masters all along the coast have been asked, and no ships have been reported missing.  Every ship which crossed the Atlantic has been accounted for safely - God be praised."  

The Admiral pressed his palms together and raised his eyes briefly to heaven, thanking the Almighty. 

"So he says Mr Yorke is wrong," Orsini said, watching the Admiral's face, and speaking quietly.  "He says he doesn't mean that Mr Yorke is foolish, only that in this case he cannot have seen the same ship that plagued the _Dido_ and the _Santa Catarina."_

"I'm certain it's the same ship," Ramage insisted.  "She has the same description, and the same battle damage that the _Dido_ gave her." 

The Admiral spoke, and Orsini translated.  "He says he understands that the captain of the _Diligente_ is an old enemy of yours."

"Captain Kerguelen is an old friend."

The Admiral spoke. 

"He's trying to suggest - very politely - that maybe you've seen what you want to see," Orsini translated.  "He's trying to be diplomatic."

"Tell him,  I had hoped never to cross Kerguelen's path at sea, but now that he's here, it is my duty to stop him.  He's a dangerous enemy, and if he is here, it must be for something specific."

"But if he's here," Orsini said, _"Why_ is he here?  Doing nothing, pursuing nothing?  You know, he could have caught the Amethyst if he really wanted to, sir," he added.  "We saw for ourselves how fast the _Diligente_ is, and how well trained his crew is.  If the ship the _Amethyst_ saw is the _Diligente,_ why is he doing nothing?" 

"I don't know," Ramage said.  "I _can't_ explain it.  Tell him I don't know, but I suggest he keeps his captains warned to look out.  Kerguelen is a dangerous enemy - when he strikes, it will be fast, and it will do damage."

"He says he will take your suggestions," Orsini said, when the Admiral replied.  "He says Bonaparte's five million francs tells him that you know the calibre of your enemies..."

Ramage bowed politely, but he felt the frustration gnawing at him.   

As the sun went down, Ramage walked down the steep hill to the waterfront.  He found the _Dido_ ’s green cutter on the beach, with Hill’s order to wait there.  He cheerfully superceded Hill’s order, and had them carry him back to the _Dido_.  He made his way down to his own cabin without being accosted by prostitutes – the gold lace seemed to draw them like flies.

He saw the straw hat lying on the table, before he saw Jackson sitting on the lockers under the sternlights, silhouetted against the sunset.  He put his own hat down next to Jackson’s, and walked through the cabin. 

“Jackson!”

“Captain.”  Jackson stood up.  

"I have good news for you."

"Sir?" 

“You don’t have to worry about Mr O’Reilly.  I met him today, and I told him you didn't know him.” 

Jackson was quiet for a moment. 

"I said there were a good many men named Thomas Jackson in the Navy," Ramage added.  "So you don't have to worry about him knowing where you are." 

“He didn’t believe you," Jackson sighed.  

“He didn’t say so.” 

“He wouldn’t,” Jackson said.  “He won’t.” 

“Why not?” 

Jackson sighed again, deeply.   He drew out a chair, and sat down opposite Ramage, and stared at his hat on the table in front of him.  

"Somebody spoke out of turn," he said quietly.

"It wasn't me," Ramage said.  "You asked me to keep your name out of my despatches, and I have." 

"Somebody did.  _Somebody_ knows where I am."

"How do you know?" 

“Because I _am_ Algernon Foxcroft.”   

Ramage stared at him in surprise.

“You?” 

“I used that name in the War.” 

 _His_ war, Ramage thought; the American Revolution.  “I thought Thomas Jackson was your real name!” Ramage accused. 

He saw a tiny wince on Jackson’s face.  “It is my real name!” Jackson said.  “But Algernon Foxcroft _isn’t._   It was a false name.  One that I used, on and off.”

“Why would you use a false name?” 

“Why would _you_ use a false name?" Jackson asked.  "Mr Gillray?” 

"I take your point," Ramage said.

Jackson ran his hand over his hair.  “It’s different, fighting a war on your own soil.  If I’d used my own name, I would have brought redcoats to my family’s door… The stakes were too high.” 

Ramage shuddered.  That could have been _his_ problem, if Bonaparte had succeeded in crossing the Channel and invading England.  French chasseurs billeted in Blazey Hall; French officers stabling their horses at Aldington. 

"And that's why you don't want to meet him?" Ramage asked.  "Because he _does_ know you?"

"He does know me.  He must know me." 

 _Deserter..._ Ramage did not say the word out loud.  He understood shame; he understood guilt. “He’s American?”  

“He must be.  Only an American would know that name."  

“I can see why he keeps his nationality quiet,” Ramage said.  “The Portuguese are very conservative.  They won’t mind an Irish Catholic, but they’ll draw the line at an American.”

 _“Particularly_ if he fought with General Washington.”

It was often impossible to tell the difference between Britons and Americans.  Anyone could visit an American consul and swear that he was an American citizen, and be issued a Protection that said so.  Even Ramage himself had one, in the name of Nicholas Gillray of Connecticut, but genuine Americans were furious that their Protections were not believed by the British government.   It was a bone of contention between the two countries.

"It wasn't me that shared your name," he said.  "I promised in the _Kathleen_ not to write your name in my despatches."

"I know," Jackson said.  "Up until now, I thought only two people knew where I was.  My sister, and James Madison.  And I trusted them both, but now I don't know.  Somebody talked out of turn, and I don't know _why."_  

Ramage dimly remembered the name; he thought Madison held some American government post, but he didn't remember what. 

"And now?"

"And now... I don't know."   Jackson wrung up his face.  "I don't _like_ this.  An American, here?  Now?" 

It was unusual, Ramage thought, to see Jackson doubting himself.  Jackson had always been self-possessed, confident, keeping his own counsel in all things.  It was strange to see him looking uneasy. 

"I don't even know why I'm telling _you,"_ Jackson said, looking at Ramage.  "It's as if all my chickens are coming to roost at once.  All my secrets are coming back to life.  I thought I buried Algernon Foxcroft years ago, and here he is popping up again.  There are too many things coming to light all at once, and I don't trust coincidences." 

"There's something _in_ this place," Ramage said.  "There's something here that sets my teeth on edge."

"It's the slaves," Jackson said. 

"I've lived in places with slaves before."

"Never so many, though," Jackson said.  "A city with a lot of slaves always set people's teeth on edge.  The people who live here probably think it's normal - I know _I_ used to." 

"Maybe," Ramage said.  "But it doesn't matter.  We won't be staying here long.  The Prince Regent is moving to Rio in a few weeks.  All you need to do is stay in the ship until we leave.  As you say - he has no way of knowing he has the same Thomas Jackson until he meets you.  And I'll see to it he's not allowed aboard the ship."

 

 


	23. Bad news for the best man

Yorke wore his best shore-going suit, but he was already drenched in sweat.  He kept drawing a sharp breath and letting it out again; glancing to the back of the church, and then forcing himself not to look. 

“Settle down!” Ramage said to him, elbowing him.  “You’re getting married, not going into battle.” 

“I’ve only got one chance to get this right!” Yorke protested.  His eyes went to the back of the church again.

“The only thing that matters is walking out of here with Isabella on your arm!” Ramage turned, and looked the length of the nave.

The church was full.  Most of the people were craning around to see the back of the church, where the bride was late.  Isabella’s family were all in Portugal, so the bride's half of the church had been taken over by Yorke’s officers. Both little girls were sitting in the front line, with a dowager between them to keep them occupied.  Ramage’s officers were on the groom’s side; a solid block of blue and white.  Hill, Martin, Kenton, Orsini, and the Marine Rennick were there. He could see Southwick’s white hair, and Bowen, and Jackson behind them.  

Ramage turned his eyes upward to the glorious ceiling.  The church looked upward to heaven through a tumbling whirl of cherubs and gold.  If a good setting was auspicious for a marriage, then this was as good as it gets.

His eye was taken by one carved cherub that looked as if it was heavily pregnant…

Ramage winced, and then hoped his expression hadn't shown on his face.  He was definitely getting obsessed. It didn't help to obsess about other people's children, he told himself.   Nothing would help. The only thing he could do was to force himself to stop thinking about it, and go on with his life.

Yorke at his side was jittering again.  He was jiggling his shoulders like a nervous racehorse at the starting line.

“I’m crazy, aren’t I?” Yorke asked, under his breath.  “I’m crazy."

"You're getting married," Ramage elbowed his friend. "So of course you're crazy."

"I’ve only known her a few months," Yorke said.  He jiggled, clearly wanting to wring his hands.  "Maybe I'm biting off more than I can chew.”

Ramage grinned at him.  "You are," he promised Yorke.  "It _is._ You have _no idea."_

“Do you love her?”  Ramage asked. 

“Yes,” Yorke said, and his face broke up in a wobbly grin as the realization struck him afresh.  “God.  So much I could scream!” 

“Then why are you questioning what you already _know?”_   The Italian gesture flowed out through his hands. It would have been impossible to prevent even if he had known that it was coming. 

Yorke was in more trouble than he'd ever known in his life, Ramage thought.  Yorke did not know how much trouble languages were going to cause; he had no idea how much trouble foreign in-laws would cause; how much trouble two small step-daughters would bring him; how large Catholic emancipation was going to loom in his life.    

But also, Yorke had no idea how _insignificant_ these troubles became, when you were truly in love.  Ramage knew perfectly well that the barriers between himself and Gianna had become insurmountable because they had not truly loved each other - they had only been _in love_ with each other. By contrast, he knew that no religious or political differences or acrimonious arguments could ever, _ever_ push him away from Sarah. 

There was a chord from the organ, and Yorke swung around.  Isabella stood framed in the doorway, her bridesmaids at her sides. 

“Oh,” Yorke said, his eyes going wide with the dazed expression he always seemed to wear when he saw Isabella.  He seemed lost for words, his gaze fixed on Isabella. 

“There you go,"  Ramage whispered.  _"Carpe puellam..."_

He knew that he had already been forgotten.  He retreated to his place, leaving Yorke alone at the altar.  Yorke and Isabella had eyes only for each other.

Isabella paused for a moment, as if catching her breath, and then began advancing up the aisle toward them.  She was unescorted.  Her face was composed, but her eyes were fixed on Yorke’s as if she would never look away; huge, dark, liquid eyes, lifted in breathless ecstasy like an El Greco Madonna. 

 “Ah-h-h,” Yorke breathed.  His eyes were fixed on his bride.  The priest stepped forward in a cloud of frankincense to meet Isabella. Together Yorke and his bride turned to face the altar, and knelt together. 

And then the vital moment had flown by, and it was done. 

Ramage found himself in a whirl of congratulations, and the signing of the marriage register, and handshakes from gentlemen, and kisses from ladies, and awkwardness as everyone jostled for their ten seconds of the wedding couple’s time.  Yorke no longer looked anxious. His handsome face kept breaking out into a huge grin as if he still couldn’t quite believe his luck. Isabella clung to his arm, her eyes shining. Yorke and Isabella walked out of the church to find a double row of seamen waiting at the foot of the steps: Amethysts to the left, and Ramage’s old Tritons on the right.  At a quick order from Appleby they drew their cutlasses and held them all up in an archway.  The married couple walked under the archway of cutlasses, under a shower of rice and cheers.  They were escorted to the docks at the head of a small procession. 

Ramage waved and cheered with the rest as Yorke’s boat shoved off from the water steps.  They were going to their honeymoon in the same ship that had carried their courtship.

And then it was over.  He caught one last glimpse of Yorke's shining brown hair and Isabella's dress in the stern of the boat, and then the bride and groom were out of sight.

“I love weddings,” Ramage said, happily.  He remembered when it had been his turn, and his ring, and Sarah looking up at him with that wondrous smile of nervousness and delight. 

“My cheeks hurt from smiling too much!” Orsini complained, poking at his cheekbones with his fingers. 

“He’s going to have a job carrying her over _that_ threshold,”  Jackson said. 

“He’ll think of something,” Ramage said.  “He’s a resourceful man!” 

"She looks like the kind of bride who'll carry _him,"_ Hill observed. "I suggested to Mr Kenton that we should row over there tonight and bang pots together under his windows.” 

“I’ll sink your boat,” Appleby threatened.  “You steer clear of the _Amethyst._   All of you!” 

“Does that include me?” Ramage asked. 

“Absolutely that includes you!” Appleby said, swinging his threatening index finger to include his former captain.  “I _know_ you!  You’re not dragging him off on any of your crazy adventures! You steer well clear of the _Amethyst!”_

“Aye aye, _sah!”_ Ramage said, giving a mock salute to Appleby. 

“Sir,” Kenton asked.  He touched his hat, which caused rice to shower out of the hat’s  brim.  “The wardroom want to know if we might have a few hours to celebrate Captain Yorke’s wedding.” 

“What, all of you?” 

“Yes, sir.  We’d like to go out and see some of the sights of the city, sir.”

Ramage thought about it.  Walker had forbidden the men to have a run ashore, but he’d given permission for the officers. And he already knew about the wedding. 

“I’ll see to the men, sir,” Southwick offered.  “I’ll make sure they’re all back aboard. And I can take care of the anchor watches.”    

A night of carousing held little appeal for Southwick, compared with spending a quiet evening with a heated brick against his back.  Clearly the lieutenants had already discussed the plan with him. 

“Very well,” Ramage said.  "Be back by midnight, if you please.  Walker gave us permission to go ashore tonight, but we do _not_ have permission to sleep out of the ship.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Kenton said, and grinned.  “And may we borrow Mr Orsini for the evening as well?”

“Me?” Orsini said. 

“Yes, you,” Martin said.  “We are going to introduce you to the society of commissioned officers!  Since you _are_ going to be one, very soon.”

“I was going to have dinner with Dom Rodrigo,” Orsini said,  “and then we were going to examine some of the notable architecture in the Upper City.”

“Hell, no!” Martin said.  “You can go look at manky old churches any day! 

“Sir?” Kenton asked Ramage.

 “He’s all yours,” Ramage agreed.

“Come on, Paolo!” Martin said, tucking his arm through Orsini’s elbow and towing him along. 

“But I must make my apologies to Dom Rodrigo!” Orsini protested as he was towed away. 

“He's coming too,” Hill announced, taking Orsini’s other arm, and Kenton and Rennick followed along behind.  “It has all been arranged, Paolo.  There’s this nice little place just up the road that we want to show you!” 

They were already accelerating away; hauling Orsini off to places unknown.  From the wicked expressions of anticipation on their faces, Ramage could guess where they were taking him. 

“Oh.  The poor innocent little Catholic boy,”  Jackson murmured, at Ramage’s side.  

"I wager I know where they're taking him," Ramage said.  He watched Orsini being towed away. 

"The officer's mess took _me_ when I was an ensign," Jackson agreed.  "Are you going straight back to the ship, Captain?”

“Not yet,” Ramage said.  “I have dinner with the captains of our little convoy.  And after that, Lieutenant Pascal asked me to call on him.  Pass my regards to Mr Loach, will you?” 

“I will, Captain.  Till tonight.” 

* * *

 

Jackson went back to the ship in Southwick’s boat.  He reported himself to Loach, and went below to his own cabin.  He shrugged out of his coat and draped it over his chair.  He was still getting used to wearing a coat, waistcoat and high stock; there were days when he missed his loose sailor’s trousers and open shirt. 

There was a knock at the door, and Silkin came in. 

“Been waiting for you,” Silkin said.  “A letter came for you, while you were gallivanting ashore.”  

“For me?” Jackson said, sitting upright.  “Not for the captain?” 

“I _think_ I know the difference between your name and his,” Silkin said.  He held out a folded letter. 

Jackson took it, and turned it over.  His own name was written on it, under a lump of red wax.   “Did you see who delivered it?” 

“Did you notice that I’m not _your_ steward?” Silkin said, snippily.  “I’m not keeping your diary for you.  I’ve got my own work to do, what with all this damn entertaining the captain’s doing, and the royal thing, and so many dinners …”

Silkin retreated in a cloud of bad temper.  Jackson was used to Silkin’s occasional fits of pique; he knew that Silkin would probably dip into Ramage’s cognac before bed.  He sat down in his chair, and pushed his cabin door closed with one foot.  He broke the seal on the letter, and unfolded it.   

_My dear Mr Jackson_

_I do apologise for using your real name, and not the_ nom de guerre _under which you are so well known._

_My previous communication with you may have come as a surprise to you.  Unfortunately some circumspection was required, as is always the case with matters of this nature._

_I beg from you the opportunity to introduce myself to your Volterrani friend.  The Portuguese have set so close a guard on him that it is impossible to gain an interview  without their knowledge, and it is of course not possible to declare overtly that I desire such an interview.  I would be obliged if you would bring him to me, that I may make myself known to him outside the knowledge of the English or the Portuguese._

_I have charged a trusted servant to wait at the job-horse stables until it is convenient for His Lordship to call on me.  My servant will give you directions to a place where we may speak in confidence,_

_I am, Sir, Your obedient servant, &ct_

_Tim. O’Reilly_

Jackson folded the letter.  He got up and pulled on his coat again, and left his cabin.  He went into Ramage’s cabin, with a nod to the sentry, and put the letter inside Ramage’s copy of the Navy List, next to the Round Robin. 

After that, he left the cabin, and walked around the _Dido_ ’s wheel, where Loach and Southwick were standing talking. 

“Sir,” Jackson touched his hat as he approached Mr Loach. 

“Mr Jackson?” Loach said, turning his hideous face to look at him. 

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I’d like to take a boat ashore, with your leave," Jackson said. 

“A boat?” Loach said.  “But you just got back!” 

“Yes, sir,” Jackson said.  “I found a letter waiting for me in my cabin.  Urgent business that has to be dealt with before it becomes a problem for Mr Orsini.  I’d like to go ashore and deal with it immediately.” 

“What sort of business?” Southwick asked. 

“Italian business, sir,” Jackson said, meeting the man’s eyes firmly.  “And you know how Mr Ramage likes to let his paperwork build up, sir."

It wasn’t a real answer.  It wasn't an answer at all, but everyone _did_ know how Ramage let his paperwork build up.  That was enough for the two officers to fill in the story from their own imaginations.  The lies that were believed most easily, Jackson had learned as a very young officer, were the lies men told _themselves._

“It’s nearly dark,” Loach said.  “Captain’s Standing Orders say all boats have to be back at the ship be nightfall.” 

“I’ll send the boat straight back, sir, and come off again with a bumboat,” Jackson said.  “It shouldn’t take long.”

“Very well,” Loach said.  He turned.  “Bosun’s mate – coxswain to the quarterdeck, and the gig’s crew to fall in.” 

The boat was still alongside in the water.  In two minutes Stafford was leading his crew down into the boat.  Jackson followed them down. 

“Shove off,” Jackson ordered, sitting in the sternsheets.

“Oy!” Stafford protested.  _“My_ job now!  If you’re goin’ to get chaperoned around like an officer, you can let _me_ do my job!” 

“All right, sorry!”  Jackson sat back in the sternsheets, with Stafford right behind him on the tiller.

“Shove off!” Stafford called, and this time they did.  They were free of the _Dido,_ and the oars dipped into the water, pulling the little gig across the bay toward the jetty. 

“Where are you off to, then?” Stafford asked. 

“Captain’s business,” Jackson lied. 

“Oh, _really?”_

“Yes, _really,”_ Jackson said. 

“Right,” Stafford said, but Jackson could hear him sucking his teeth thoughtfully.  “’As it got anyfing to do with Mr Ramage?”

“It’s none of your beeswax, Stafford.”  

 “Listen,” Stafford said.  “You ‘aven’t gone ashore for ten minutes altogether all week, and now you’re going after dark?  All by yourself?  It’s trouble, innit?  You want us to come with you?  Keep a look-out?” 

“It has nothing to do with Mr Ramage,  and it has nothing to do with you!” Jackson said.  “Drop me off at the water steps.  And then I’ll trouble you to return straight to the ship again!  You are _not_ to follow me ashore, is that clear?  You’ll go straight back to the ship.” 

“All right, all right,” Stafford.  “No reason to get all officer on me!” 

The boat slid in against the water steps, and the oarsmen tossed their oars.  The bow hook latched on. 

Jackson stood up, and stepped across to the lowest step. 

“Straight back to the ship,” he ordered.  “And if the captain asks where I am, tell him I’m going to deal with an American problem.  He’ll know what that is.” 

“Yuss,” Stafford said.  “We’ll do that.  No problem.” 

Jackson looked down at their upturned faces one last time, and then climbed up the water steps to the top of the wharf. 

* * *

 

 Paolo Orsini was not having a good evening. 

He tried his best not to grit his teeth.  He tried to keep a properly serene aristocratic expression mounded on his face.  For all that the officers had promised to introduce him to proper society, they had not seen fit to introduce him to the local quality at all.  They had been received by no-one.  They had seen no edifying or stimulating theatre, viewed no paintings, no sculptures. 

No - they had dragged Orsini to a _tavern_.  They had sat Orsini down at a table outside the door, and then Hill and Dom Rodrigo had disappeared to whisper to the tavernkeeper.  A few minutes later the tavernkeeper came back and set down in front of Orsini a whole row of little glasses  filled with weird local liquor.  The lieutenants all laughed at his expression when he folded his arms across his chest and looked down at the little parade of glasses with suspicion.  They insisted that he must drink it, all of it, and told him that he must drink them, because he was coming of age tonight, and they had laughed at him when he told them that it was not his birthday. 

And _then_ they had dragged him to another house that had a small band, and a quartet of dark-skinned Bahian beauties that danced.  It was a high-kicking energetic dance, full of swirling skirts and swaying hips, thrumming to wild music.  He was just beginning to sink comfortably under the warmth of the _cachaca_ , and to enjoy the vigorous music,  when they hauled him up out of his chair again. And now, here they were, back on the street again!

“Why must we leave?” he complained.  “I was just starting to enjoy myself!”

“No!” Hill said.  “We have places to go, and things to do!” 

“Yes.  Churches. I want to look at some churches. We should go _this_ way,” Orsini said.  He set off toward the upper city, but he did not get far.  He felt an arm hook through his elbow, and wheel him around. 

“No, you don’t,” Hill laughed. 

 “We are not going that way!” Martin said, towing Orsini by his elbow. 

“You’ll like where we’re going!” Kenton promised. 

Orsini allowed himself to be towed.  “ _Uffa!_   You could have just left me there!  I was enjoying the music!” 

Kenton latched onto his other arm.  “You’re a red-blooded young man,” Kenton warbled, “and it’s time you found out what that means …” 

Orsini allowed himself to be towed along.  His emotions were sliding between bouyancy and belligerence from one moment to the next,  and that was not his usual style; not his usual pattern of thought at all.  He did not want to get any drunker than this; the ship’s company had survived the catastrophe at Christmas, but it had not been pleasant. 

“I don’t want to go,” he complained, under his breath.  “You have taken me to a tavern.  I can go to a tavern at home!  This is not fun.”  It dawned on him that he was talking in his mother tongue, and therefore wasting his breath on the Englishmen. 

“Who goes there?” a man’s voice spoke, from the dark.

Kenton lurched, and Orsini staggered.  “You speak English!” he accused. 

“Yes, I've been practicing for years,”  the voice said. The horse’s hooves clopped on the cobbles, coming closer.  Hill lifted the lantern.  The light glowed on the horse’s blazed face, and then on the face of Jackson, riding it. 

“Jackson!”  Hill greeted him. 

“Good evening, sir,” Jackson said, from the saddle. 

“Where are you going?” Orsini asked. 

“For a ride.” 

“Yes, very clever.  _To_ _where_ are you going?”  Orsini said. 

“I’ve had a letter from a friend,” Jackson said, “asking me to call on him.  His house is out of the city, so I’ll be out late.” 

“You can’t leave now,” Orsini said.  “It’s dark!” 

“Don’t worry,” Jackson said.  “I can find my way.” 

“Wait,” Kenton said, raising his head and trying to focus his eyes.  “Are you going Absent Without Leave?  I’ll have to take your name.  Mr Martin, take that man’s name!”

“Aye aye, sir,” Martin said, but didn’t move to unhook his arm from Orsini.

“Don’t worry, sir,” Jackson said.  “I’ll write my own name on the Defaulter’s List in the morning.  Mr Orsini, if the Captain asks after me, tell him I’ll be back before midnight.” 

“Yes, of course,” Orsini said. 

“Thank you, sir,” Jackson said.  He reined the horse around.  The moonlight glinted on the buckles of its bridle as it turned. 

“Have a good ride,” Orsini said. 

“I will,” Jackson said.  “By your leave, gentlemen!” 

The horse turned away into the darkness, obeying its reins, and the sound of horseshoes on cobbles accelerated away through the dark. 

“And away he goes, just like that,” Martin said. 

“And he just takes it for granted he can go wherever he wants to,” Kenton said.  He began walking, and Orsini allowed himself to be towed again.

“Well, so do we,” Hill said. 

“Yes, but we’re officers,”  Martin said. 

“Well, so is he!” Hill said. 

“Captain says he isn’t,” Kenton said. 

“If you want to know for certain,” Hill said.  “You take a horse for a ride, and don’t walk it cool after.”

“Impressive, was it?” Martin asked. 

 _“Impressive?_   The walls were ringing!   My oath!” 

“I thought you were a better horseman than that, George!”  Martin said.     

“It wasn’t me!  I heard it happening to a middy, and ran away as fast as my little legs could take me! That man goes from jack tar to raging angry colonel in about two seconds flat.”

“He is _very_ mysterious,” Orsini said.   He liked the word ‘mysterious’ very much; the assonance of the two middle vowels chimed nicely together around the R, and he repeated it aloud a few times.  “Mysterious.  My- _steer-_ ree-yiss.” 

Kenton giggled. 

 “Here we are.”  Dom Rodrigo stopped and knocked at a door. 

The door opened a moment later, into light and music!  Orsini allowed Martin to tow him in, and the door was closed behind them. 

He blinked, orienting himself in the midst of light and noise.  They had interrupted a party, Orsini thought.

Most Bahian buildings that he had seen relegated the lower storey to storage and slave cells.  _This_ one had been turned into a small ballroom.  Candles glared brilliantly.  The room was crowded with people – gentlemen in waistcoats and shirtsleeves, and dark ladies in dresses cut in the revealing French style.  Couples were dancing in the centre of the floor, to the music of a three-piece band.  The music was brisk and cheerful. 

“They’re having a party.  Don’t they mind us barging in?”  Orsini asked, confused. 

“This is our party too,” Hill said.

 “Is this like Almacks?”  Orsini stared around. 

“Not _quite_ like Almacks,” Hill said. 

Orsini had been to Almacks twice.  This ballroom did not seem up to the same standard: ladies did not dress like _that_ at Almacks.  Perhaps this was something like the Vauxhall Gardens; or one of its cheaper competitors. 

“I want a drink,” Kenton said.  “And I want one of _them_.”  He pushed off from their group, wobbling on his feet through the dancers.   

“I want to listen to the music,”  Orsini decided. 

“Good idea.”  Martin let Orsini’s arm go, and they wandered together across the floor towards the musicians.  Orsini was offered a glass of red wine from a tray, and accepted it so that he was not simply standing with his hands at his sides. 

“Which one is the most pretty?” Martin asked, jogging Orsini’s elbow.  “Of the girls here, that is.”

Orsini turned.  “It isn’t wise, casting judgements on the ladies at a party,” he said.  “That is the way to get yourself into an affair of honour.” 

“Not to worry,” Martin grinned, “none of the ladies here have jealous husbands!  Pick one.”

“Paolo, Paolo, on the wall,” Hill said, “which is the fairest of them all?” 

“Well, if you insist.”  

“We do,” Hill said. 

Orsini scanned the room.  “They are a very handsome people, these Brazilians.  A strong, healthy-looking people, with a cheerful and noble carriage.  And I _do_ like the Brazilian complexion.  Such rich skin!  Now, if Caravaggio had painted Othello, I should say that he might have used a Brazilian as a model for …” 

“Never mind Caravaggio!” Martin said.  “Pick one!” 

“What for?” 

“I’ll introduce you to her,”  Martin said.

“You can’t,” Orsini pointed out, logically.  “You can’t introduce anyone here.  You don’t speak Portuguese.”  He might be tipsy, but his mind still functioned better than Martin’s, he thought. 

“Pick one, Paolo!” Hill spoke up. 

“Oh, very well.”  He scanned the room.  He discounted the dancers.  He ignored the ladies clustered at the gaming tables on the far side of the room, and the thickset older lady who appeared to be the hostess. 

“That one,” he nodded.  “On the far side, in the dark green silk dress.  The one with the flower in her hair.”

“I’ll talk to Dom Rodrigo,” Hill nodded to Martin, and moved off around the outskirts of the room. 

Orsini turned back to the music.  It was a different music altogether to the more staid sound of the tavern: a jangling, meaty rhythm.  He listened, raptly, restraining his urge to jiggle along in time with it lest he spill his wine on himself.  He and Martin stood and listened to the musicians through their piece, and when one of them took a break to empty his spit-valve, he translated a compliment from Martin on their playing. 

“ _Obrigado!_ ” the musician smiled. 

Orsini felt a hand on his shoulder.  _“Sim?”_ he said, and turned. 

It was the young woman in the green dress.  Her skin was the rich dark shade he had admired on other Bahians, and her bare shoulders shone warmly in the candle-light.  She met his eyes boldly, and smiled up at him.

“Hello, Paolo,” Hill said, behind her.  “May I introduce you to Maria?  Do you like her?” 

“Good evening,” Orsini said, in Portuguese.  He bowed.  “My name is Paolo.”  

“Ah, you speak Portuguese!” she said.  She spoke the local version of Portuguese; it had differences of pronunciation and tempo that meant that his ear was out of tune once again.  “How very clever you Englishmen are!” 

“Thank you, but I am Volterrani, not English,” he explained. 

“I’ve never met a Volterrani before.  Your friend tells me you have never been here before?”

“No,” he agreed.  “None of us has been to Bahia before.”

She smiled, warmly.  “Would you like to dance?” 

“Very much,” Orsini said.  He bowed to her, and offered her his hand.  She stepped in much closer than he expected, and drew his other hand to her hip with a sway of her body. 

He let her slip him into the dance.  It was one of the daring new German dances that he had been taught, called a _waltz,_ but danced far more intimately than they did in England.   She danced better than he did, and she grinned at his mis-steps encouragingly, and after a single round of the floor he had regained enough confidence to relax and flow with her. 

He was aware, on the third circuit of the floor, that Kenton, Martin and Hill were standing by the little band, watching him with their arms folded across their uniforms.  They were watching him dance, as if they were timing a drill.  Yes, he thought, that would show them: they had probably thought he did not know how to dance!

The dance ended.  It was hot in here, and Orsini was already sweating under his uniform.  He grinned at her, slightly breathless, and bowed his gratitude for the dance. 

“Shall we stand and watch the next one?” 

“As you wish,” she said, eagerly.  “Whatever you want to do.”  He led her back to the Englishmen, and she slipped her arm through his elbow and snuggled her hips next to his as he walked. 

“How did you like that, eh?” Martin asked, grinning at Orsini as he led Maria back to where the three officers were standing.

“You should try it.”

“Do you want to go upstairs now?”  Martin suggested. 

“Upstairs?”  Orsini asked, puzzled.

“Yes, he does,” Hill said.  He gestured to Maria, unable to speak a word of Portuguese, and pointed up to the ceiling.  “Up?” he said, in English. 

“ _Sim_ ,” she agreed, nodding, and took a firm hold of Orsini’s arm.  “We will go upstairs now, yes?” 

“Where are we going?” Orsini asked.  The wine was making him feel very warm and sociable.  He allowed himself to be steered toward the staircase.  “Are we going up for dinner?” 

“No,” Martin said.  “You’re going upstairs so that Maria can show you her … um.”

“Her _etchings._ ”  Hill grinned. 

“Etchings?” He could not think of the Portuguese word for etchings, so he asked her in Portuguese,  “Do you draw?” 

“Draw?” she asked.  It was clear she did not understand. 

“They say you want to show me your artworks?”

“Oh, yes.”  She had her hand in his, and she turned her wrist and laced her fingers with his.  “Come upstairs,” she said. 

He followed her up the staircase, with Martin and Hill close behind.  The hallway was shadowy and lined with closed doors, like an inn. 

“In here,”  she said, and pushed open a door that had been ajar.  She drew him in after her. 

The lamps on the wall had been lit.  There was a four-poster bed here.  The truth dawned on him, all at once.  “This is your bedroom!”  He dug in his heels and tried to back out of the door. 

Martin reached out, and slammed the door.  A key turned in the lock.  closed the door with a smart bang. 

“Hey!” Orsini said, spinning.  He banged his hand on the door.  “Hey!  This is her  bedroom!” 

“Come!”  Maria retreated toward the bed, smiling invitingly.  She beckoned him with one hand.  “Come!” 

“Not a chance!”  He turned back to the door and rattled the knob.  “Martin!  Open this door!” 

He heard laughing from the other side.  They didn’t unlock the door.  “He’s shy!” Martin laughed. 

“He’ll get over it in a minute or two!” Hill replied. 

“Damn you both!” Orsini shouted at them through the door.  He pounded on the panel  with his fist.  It shook on its hinges, but didn’t open.  “Let me out!” 

“You picked her out,” Kenton yelled back.  “And we paid for her!” 

 “You’re a grown man now,” Martin lectured through the door.  “You’re a red-blooded Navy man now, and it’s time you learned what that means.”

“No, I won’t!” Orsini shouted back.  “Open this door, damn you!”  

“We’re not opening it until you’ve done the deed, my lad, so you’d better be getting on with it!  We paid for it, and you’re going to do it!”

“You’ll thank us later!” 

“Damn you!”  Orsini reverted to Italian, and yelled his opinion of grotesque Englishmen and their horrible habits.  He pounded on the door, furiously. 

“Oh, no!” Maria said.  She slipped up to him, and ran her hand up around his shoulder.  “Don’t you like me any more?” 

“No!” he snapped.  He uncurled her nagging arm with his hand and gave her a shove away from him.  “Let me out!” he bellowed through the door.  He rattled the knob.  “Martin!” 

“You may as well give over shouting,” Kenton said.  “We’ll be back in an hour.”

“You’ll thank us in a minute or two!” Martin laughed.  More laughter, going away in the distance.  Martin and Kenton were leaving. 

“ _Hill,_ for God’s sake!  _You,_ of _all_ people!”

“It’s for your own good, _mon ami!”_ Hill said, in French.  “Just do it, it’s not that bad!”  There was the sound of footsteps going away, following Martin and Kenton.  Orsini had been left alone.  

“Hill!  Come back here, damn you!” 

 He turned to face Maria. 

“Don’t you like me any more?” 

“No.” 

“Of course you like me!” she said.  “Such a handsome man as you, it will be a pleasure to be your first.  I have never had a Volterrani before… you’ll be my first too …” 

She was slipping her dress down off her shoulders.  The front of the dress slipped down from her chest, exposing her bosoms.  She put her hands under the soggy lumps of fat, and raised them before his eyes. 

“Here,” she said, rolling her hands under them.  “Mmmm.”  She smiled at him; a smug smirk.

She seemed to think he would be impressed, as if she thought they would have some sorcerous power of attraction over him.  She rolled them in her hands, and let her eyelids slide down, as if pleasured by her own chest.  “Mmmmm.  You like them?” 

He couldn’t help himself.  He burst out laughing at the lascivious expression on her face, over those hideous nipples, over the idea that anyone would enjoy looking at those things.

The change over her was like a curtain falling over a window.  Her face hardened to stony ugliness.  She had decided she knew what he was – or thought she knew.  He wasn’t interested in her hideous breasts, therefore he _must_ be an invert.  She opened her mouth to scream something.

He didn’t know the Portuguese word for an invert, but he knew he didn’t want to hear it.  A leap, and his weight crashed into her.  He was a foot taller, and he crushed her to the door, effortlessly.  His hand clamped over her mouth. 

“Quiet!” 

Her eyes bulged in fury, and she squirmed against him.  He felt a knee try to get into his groin, and that was enough to make him angry.  He simply yanked her away from the wall, and slammed her back into it a second time.  He glared into her angry, frightened eyes. 

“No!” he said.  “You _shut up!”_   He lowered his face to hers, inches away.  “Not one word.” 

He felt her stop struggling.  She went almost limp. 

God help him, he thought, despairing.  She was a prostitute.  She seemed accustomed to having men handle her as they saw fit, and that thought caused a wave of despair wash over him.  He loosened his grip on her mouth. 

“Not one word,” he said, and lowered his hand, and stepped back. 

Her eyes still held nothing but contempt for him, but she did not struggle.  She sneered at him.  She knew what he was – or thought she knew – and he was even lower down on the hierarchy of sin than she was.  “A man who is not a man,” she sneered. 

“I am a man who will pay _you_ to shut up.” 

“Money?” 

“Money,” he said.  “So you’ll get paid twice.”

“I am not getting paid at all!” She curled her lip, as if he was stupid.  “Your friends paid my master, not me.”

“Your master?”

“Stupid Englishman!  Do you think free women do this work?  I am a slave.” 

“I am Volterrani,” he snapped.  _“My_ people don’t keep slaves!”

“You don’t?” 

“We do things differently in Volterra!” he said.  “We don't keep slaves.  And women who do what _you_ do are _paid!_   And paid _well!_ A beautiful woman like you would own her own house by now, in Volterra!” 

"A house?"  She didn't look as if she believed him, but at least disbelief was better than disgust. 

 He ducked his hand into his pocket and pulled out a coin.  “Your master has been paid for your body,” he said.  “But I will pay for your _silence.”_

“A coin for silence,” she agreed.  “That is a trade I _can_ make for myself.” 

 _“Che_ _bello_ _.”_   He flicked the coin at her, and she snapped it out of the air with her fingers. 

“Have you got a spare key?”  he asked, jerking his thumb at the door over his shoulder. 

“No,” she said.  “I am locked in at night.”

“All right,” Orsini said. 

He had a set of lock-picks hidden in his boot.  Stafford had taught him to pick locks – repeating his lessons over and over, with every lock he could find, until he was sure that the Marchesa’s nephew would never be locked in anywhere he did not want to be.  He could pick this domestic lock, but then he would have to sneak downstairs, and through the ballroom, and Martin, Hill and Kenton would see him.

“How about the window?” 

“Do you think my owner is stupid?” she asked.  “It is too high to jump.” 

He walked past her to the window.  He yanked open the drapes, and peered out through the panes.  No bars.  He ran up the sash and leaned out, looking down.  He had thought they were on the first floor, with the dance on the ground floor, but he had not realized that the house had been built on a slope.  This window was three storeys off the cobbled street. 

“ _Uffa!_ ” he said, annoyed.  He craned his neck upward, checking under the eaves above the window. 

“Too high to jump,” she said. 

“I’m not going to jump,” he said.  “I am going to climb.”

“Down?” 

“Up,” he said. 

He pushed the window all the way up, and propped the stick under the sash.  He leaned over the sill, looking up at the eaves.  He couldn’t quite reach them – but there was a foothold there … and he could get his fingers in there … and then to there …

Yes, he told himself, this was practicable.  It would be a very technical climb, but he enjoyed technical climbing.  Mr Aitken had taught him well, climbing up and down Diamond Rock. 

And below him was a cobbled street.  Fall, and he would break bones.  He felt the first chill of dread, and the first flush of exhilaration.  It would puzzle Martin and the others no end when they found that Orsini had escaped from a locked room!   

He looked back at Maria.  She was frowning now, as if concerned that her first Volterrani was a madman. 

“One coin for your silence,” he said.  “And another coin to tell a story.” 

“A story?” 

“My friends will come back in a few minutes,” he said, reaching into his pocket with the hand that was not holding onto the window.  He raised the coin so that she could see the glitter of it, and set it on the sill.   “When they come in, tell them I turned myself into a seal, and jumped through the window.” 

“A seal?”

“ _Sim_ – you know what a seal is, don’t you?  Big roly-poly thing, lives in the harbour?  Really naste teeth?  Tell my friends that you saw me take a sealskin out of my pocket, turn into a seal, and jump from the window.  Tell them the Lord of the Selkies is going back to sea.” 

With that he climbed up so that he was standing on the sill, his head out, balancing himself along the wall.  He reached up and gripped the first handhold with his hands, testing its stability, testing the power of his fingers.  When he was sure, he pulled himself out of the window, his fingers hooked into his handhold, and reached for the first foothold. 

Yes, he could do this.  There were just enough handholds to make his way across to where the eaves came down low enough to reach.  He made his way sideways across the window of the next room, inside which another couple were copulating noisily. 

A boot against the wall above the window, to steady his balance with friction, and then with a heave, he dragged his body up and over the eaves, and down onto the tiled roof.  He brought his knee up and wriggled his body over, so that he lay on the roof in the darkness.  The couple in the room below never noticed.

He lay on the roof for a moment, listening.  He could hear the band playing under him.  He leaned his head back over the edge of the roof and glanced down under him. 

Maria was still leaning out of the window, staring.  His face appearing over the roof startled her, because she jumped back. 

“Farewell,” he said to her. 

“Good luck, Volterrani.” 

_“Obrigada.”_

He pushed himself to hands and knees, and made his way up to the spine of the roof. 

Another building backed onto this one.  He climbed down to the lower roof, and moved carefully along it, catfooting, testing each step with a wiggle of his toe for fear of a loose tile.  And what an excellent place for a tree, he thought.  Very helpful of the house-owner to plant a nice tree right here.  He climbed down from the roof, feeling with his toes for the wrought iron balcony, and transferred himself to the trunk of the tree.  He felt the tree sway under his weight with the softness of tropical wood, but he was able to slip lightly down to the ground. 

It had been a long time since he’d climbed up Diamond Rock, but the lessons had not been forgotten.  It was quite a bit easier than making his way up to a swaying maintopgallant mast in the dark in a gale, he thought, smugly.  The building wasn’t actively _trying_ to shake him off.   

“There we go, young Paolo,”  he told himself, dusting off his hands, and looking up at the rooftop above him.  “And now Martin can scratch his head over how I got out, just as Bonaparte wonders how I got out of Volterra!  We Volterrani must have our traditions, must we not?” 

“Who moves there?” a Portuguese voice shouted from the dark, a few houses away, making him jerk.  “Stand still, you runaway!” 

“ _Accidenti!_ ”

Whoever it was, they were just a shadow in the dark.  “A whipping!  A whipping at the pillory, for slaves out after the curfew!  Stand still!” 

“Not on your _life,_ mate!” Orsini shouted in English,  and took to his heels.

* * *

Darkness had fallen hours ago, by the time Ramage reached the fort.  The captains of the _Santa Catarina_ , the _Gaviota_ , and the _Benguela_ had hosted Ramage to dinner in a private house, and he found himself seated at the head of the table as guest of honour.  Captain Dos Santos had managed to find a translator, and the evening had passed convivially enough.  Ramage had one last task to complete, before he could return to the Dido. 

Since there were so few prisoners from the French privateer, the Portuguese had decided not to build a new prisoner-of-war camp just for them, but to shut them up in an existing building.  Pascal and his men had been transferred from the Dido to a small fort.  Ramage had promised to visit Pascal in his new accommodation.  

Ramage was allowed in by the sentries, once they recognised his uniform.  He signed into the fort’s visitor’s book,  under the eyes of the fort’s commander, and was shown to the room where Lieutenant Pascal was living.   Pascal met Ramage at the door of his little room. 

 _“Capitaine_ Ramage,” Pascal said, bowing low in the doorway.  “You honour me with your visit this evening.” 

 _“Monsieur_ Pascal,” Ramage returned the bow.  “Monsieur Hill sent me your message.  You wanted to see me.” 

“Yes, Citizen!  Will you come in, Citizen, and sit?”  He backed away from the door, letting Ramage into the little stone room.  “Did the Portuguese allow you in without any fuss?  I do hope so.  I would have entertained you in the town, but the conditions of my parole,” Pascal shrugged, “you know.”  

“Of course, I understand.”  Ramage sat down in the chair that Pascal was indicating.  Pascal sat down in the only other chair in his room. 

Pascal had given his parole to the Portuguese, with Ramage’s assurances that he was an honourable man, and a gloss over the fact that Pascal was no longer serving in the French Navy.  He was allowed to leave the fort during the day, but had to present himself back at the fort at nightfall. 

“I am somewhat lacking in the means of offering hospitality.  I regret that I cannot offer you a supper.” 

“No, thank you,” Ramage said.  “I have already dined.  Do not put yourself out on my account, Monsieur Pascal, I beg you.  I hope the Portuguese are treating you well?” 

“I have been treated with every courtesy.  My men as well.  They are being kept _here,_ of course, but I know that I owe their comfort to you.”

“I did nothing special, I assure you,” Ramage said. 

“None the less,” Pascal said.  “I wanted to thank you, personally, for your kindness these last weeks, and your care of my wounded men, and your intercedence when the Portuguese threatened to throw us all in prison.  I have been very touched by the amiable spirit of the English.  And I wanted to apologise to you, personally, for my accusations when we first met, Citizen Ramage.  In the last month, I have seen that you are _not_ the man I was led to believe.  You are not a pirate.”

“I am a Naval officer,” Ramage said. 

“Yes!” Pascal said, quickly.  “Exactly!  Captain Kerguelen told me you were a fine officer.  I did not believe it at the time, but now I know.  But it is written in Le Moniteur that you are a pirate, and the murderer of Captain Brune, and now I know this is wrong.  I do not know how Le Moniteur has become so confused, but I wanted to tell you that I know better, and I will do my best to see that your name is cleared.” 

“No, that’s not necessary,” Ramage said, hurriedly.   “I care nothing for Le Moniteur!  It is enough for me to know that I have _two_ friends in St Malo.”

“You do!” Pascal said.  “And that is why I will write to Le Moniteur myself, and clear your name.”

“You won’t be allowed to publish it,” Ramage said. 

“Nonsense.  It is quite wrong that such a fine officer is misrepresented in its pages.” 

“I do not mind!” Ramage said. 

Pascal shook his head, undeterred.   “Not by a day will I let the foremost newspaper in Paris publish errors for the citizens of France to read; not when it is in my power to disseminate the truth!”

The foremost newspaper in Paris, Ramage thought, incredulous – Le Moniteur?  So it was true: the only propaganda that mattered was the propaganda that wasn’t recognised as propaganda. 

“You must not go back to France and shout that Le Moniteur is wrong!” Ramage insisted.  “Fouche will hear of it, and then you will be in very serious trouble.”

“I am sure you are exaggerating, Citizen!” Pascal said.  “No.  I must write a letter.  I will send it straight to Paris through the French consul here.  Within two months, Europe will know the truth!” 

“The _French consul?”_

“Yes,” Pascal said.  “He spoke to me yesterday.  A nice man.  He wanted to make sure I was comfortable, and offered me a place to stay if the Portuguese let me.”

The hairs quite suddenly rose on the back of Ramage’s neck.  _There was no French consul in_ _Salvador_ _._   The Portuguese kept the port closed to all outsiders.   There were no foreign envoys _at all,_ other than himself and Walker. 

“He even offered to send me back to St Malo _tonight,_ if I was interested,” Pascal said.

"Tonight?" Ramage asked, sharply. 

"Yes, tonight, but I had to turn him down, of course.  I have already given my parole not to escape.  I am an honourable man, you know, Captain.  I told him I would need to discuss it with the Portuguese first.” 

Pascal was a complete innocent, he thought.  It was clear to Ramage why Pascal had not been told where the _Louise_ and the _Diligente_ were going; the man had the brain of a bird. 

“Where did you meet this French consul?” he asked, keeping his voice light.  “Did he come here, to the fort?” 

If the French agent had entered the fort, he must have signed into the garrison’s day book, as Ramage had to do to get in here. 

“Oh, no.  He met me in that square – you know, the Peque … Pequirinho?” 

“The Pelourinho,” Ramage said.  “How do you know he was the French consul?” 

“He said he was.  He enquired very kindly after all the officers of the _Diligente.”_     

“But _your_ ship was the Louise,” Ramage said.  “How did he know the _Diligente?”_

“Oh, I don’t know.  He said he had some dealings with Captain Kerguelen before.  I had to tell him I had no idea where the _Diligente_ went, after we were captured.”  Pascal shrugged away his complete lack of insight into the question. 

“So the _Diligente_ has been to Brazil before,” Ramage breathed.  The hairs had risen up all down the back of his neck. 

“I suppose she must have,” Pascal said. 

“Yes, she must have,” Ramage said.  The gooseflesh was creeping  over his skin from his elbows to the back of his neck, as if his spine was trying to curl up into his hair. 

“You idiot,” he whispered in English. 

“ _Comment?_ ” Pascal asked, blankly.  “I’m sorry, I still have only a few words of English.  But are you well, Citizen?  You have gone quite pale.”

“I am fine.  I apologise, Monsieur Pascal.”  He stood up, slowly.

“You’re leaving so soon?” 

“Yes.  I have some urgent business to attend to.  Right now.  Immediately.  Mr Pascal, would you mind if I gave you some advice?” 

“But of course, Captain.” 

“Don’t go back to France,” he said.  “Stay here.  Learn Portuguese.  Marry a nice Brazilian girl.  Stay here where you are safe, and never go back to France.”  He backed away to the door.  It was not locked, and he opened it. 

Pascal stood up, looking confused.  “But…”

“I mean it, Mr Pascal.  Stay here.  You too innocent for this new way of war.”

As soon as Ramage was out of the fort, he started to run. 

He was a long way from the Governor’s palace.  He ran full-tilt, letting the moon guide him, his ankles jolting over the cobblestones.  Up, up, uphill.  Up, toward the elegant churches and palaces of the upper town.  He ran, until a sudden light ahead of him revealed the shape of the Lacerda Elevator. 

He ran, until he spun around a corner, and collided hard with someone running in the opposite direction.  

The man he’d run into was much bigger than he was  shorter than he was, and the collision blasted him backwards off his feet.  He landed on his backside.  “Ooph!”   

“Uncle Nico?” a voice wheezed from the darkness above him.  “Is that you?  What are you doing here?” 

Ramage rolled himself to his hands and knees.  “Paolo?”  he grunted.  He would recognise that voice anywhere! 

“It’s me.”  Orsini was panting, and holding onto the wall.  “Did I hurt you?”  He leaned down, grabbed Ramage under his armpits, and heaved him bodily up to his feet. 

“Ow, ow, ow,” Ramage grunted.  He could feel every cobble he landed on, imprinted on his backside.  He reached out and leaned his hand on the wall for balance, catching his breath.  “Where are you going…” he gasped, “in such a hurry?” 

“Running away from Kenton and Blower.” 

“Why?”

Orsini couldn’t answer immediately, just held up one finger.  “I have rather more refined tastes…” _wheeze,_ “than Brazilian slaves.   _Mio dio.”  Wheeze._   “I climbed out through the window.”

Ramage was damned if he’d ever heard of a naval officer running _away_ from a woman before.  But Paolo’s presence was a lucky turn.  He could send Paolo to the _Dido_ to talk to Jackson.  In fact, if he was right, the _Dido_ was _exactly_ where he wanted to send Paolo; out of harm’s way. 

“I want you go straight back to the _Dido,”_ Ramage panted.  “I need you to find Jackson, and tell him from me that I know what O’Reilly’s game is, and I’m on my way to the Palace right now to put a stop to it.” 

“O’Reilly?” Orsini asked. 

“Yes,” Ramage said.  “Jackson will know who that is.  He won’t be impressed, but tell him …” 

“Jackson is not in the ship, sir,” Orsini said.  “He’s ashore.” 

“He’s ashore?” Ramage asked.  “Now?” 

“I saw him, not more than an hour ago.  He was riding a horse.  He said he was riding to meet an old friend.” 

Ramage staggered.  He gasped for breath, as if he’d been punched in the stomach. 

“Uncle?”  Orsini’s dark shadow came closer. 

“Where did he go?”  Ramage asked hoarsely.

“He didn’t say,” Orsini said.  “He just said he would be back by midnight.  Is something wrong?” 

“Yes,” Ramage whispered.  “Something is _very_ wrong.  Jackson is standing into danger.”

“Danger?”

“There’s a French agent in the city,” Ramage said.  “He’s masquerading as an American citizen.  And Jackson is going to meet him, alone.  Tonight.” 

 

 


	24. The chase

Ramage followed Orsini to the Municipal Square, where the Governor’s Palace was a great confection of white and cream plaster in the night. Lights still blazed from every window.  Orsini went straight up to the front door and banged on it imperiously.  It was opened for them by a pair of footmen, and Orsini spoke to them quickly in Portuguese. 

One of them turned and went off down the corridor.  The other ushered Ramage and Orsini into a small ante-chamber – clearly a waiting room for petitioners to the Governor. 

“Kerguelen is here somewhere,” Ramage said, while they waited. 

“Kerguelen, sir?” Orsini asked.  The candle cast a yellow glow over his sweating cheeks.  “The captain of the other privateer?” 

“He's here,” Ramage said.  “I can almost smell him.  _This_ is why those two privateers were so far off their usual routes.  Kerguelen was coming here.  The French knew all along that they were going to invade Portugal, so they sent their privateers here in advance.  The _Diligente_ is here to warn O’Reilly that the war has started.  She's his  means of communicating with his handlers.” 

“How do you know, sir?” Orsini asked. 

“Let’s just say that loose lips sink ships,” Ramage said.  “After we find Jackson I am going to ask Walker if he’ll care to go and hunt the _Diligente_ with me.”  He was interrupted by an arrival at the door. 

A pair of servants came in, bearing tall candelabras that brought the light in the small waiting room into a brilliant glow.  And then the Governor himself followed: Governor João de Saldanha da Gama, count of Ponte.  “What is this I hear about spies?”  he demanded in French. 

“I have just learned that there is a French spy in Salvador,” Ramage said in the same language. 

“A French spy!” Da Gama gasped.  “Who?” 

“His name is O’Reilly,” Ramage said. 

“Senhor O’Reilly?” Da Gama asked.  “But I know this man!  Who on earth says he is a spy?” 

Ramage couldn’t name Pascal.  He had already decided that the idiot did not deserve to be sucked into espionage.  He was a fool, but an innocent fool.  If he was lucky, Pascal would never know that his garrulity had sunk a French ship. 

“A hunch, _senhor._   O’Reilly is a French agent.” 

“You are wrong, Captain!”  The Governor turned and stared at his aide-de-camp, in disbelief at the behaviour of these Englishmen. 

“Sir,” Ramage said, “I beg you to show me to the Prince Regent’s apartments, where I may lay my evidence before him.” 

“Show _me_ this evidence first,” Da Gama said. 

Ramage felt his hand rising to rub at the scar on his brow.  “I cannot divulge the name of the person who told me.” 

“Then you have no evidence,” Da Gama said.  “No, I suggest you return to your ship, Captain Ramage, and consider again whether you should throw accusations of this nature against one of Salvador’s first citizens!” 

“O’Reilly _is_ a French agent,” Ramage said.  “And one of my officers is riding into a trap, even as we speak …” 

 He was interrupted by another arrival at the door.  It was Dom Rodrigo.  He stopped short with a shrill cry of horror when he saw Orsini. 

On his heels, Martin, Kenton and Hill crowded into the room. 

“How did you get out of a locked room?” Dom Rodrigo asked, staring at Orsini. 

"Did she not tell you?" Orsini asked.  "I told you, Dom Rodrigo. I am the Lord of the Selkies..." 

Dom Rodrigo took a step backward and collided with Mr Hill.  “So it is true what people say about the Volterrani!  That you consort with demons?  That you practice witch-craft, and drink human blood?”

“I _beg_ your pardon?” Ramage asked. 

Dom Rodrigo turned to face him.  “His woman said he turned himself into a seal, right in front of her!  He turned himself into a seal, and jumped out of the window. Witchcraft.”

“Nonsense!” Kenton said.  “He picked the lock, and sneaked out while our backs were turned.  That's all!"

"He is _Volterrani,"_ Dom Rodrigo said, and crossed himself. 

“Stop being _ridiculous!”_ Ramage snapped.  He turned back to the Governor.  “Governor, I assure you.  Timothy O’Reilly is a French spy.” 

“No, Captain,” the Governor said.  “You are mistaken.  Just because O'Reilly is Irish, does not mean he is a French spy!  You don’t know how many Irishmen have fled from your shores!  There are Irishmen serving Catholic crowns all over the world.” 

“I am not mistaken, my lord,” Ramage said.  “O’Reilly serves France!” 

The Governor was shaking his head.  “No, of course he doesn't serve France,” he said. “Timothy O’Reilly has lived here in Salvador for years!  In fact, many times I’ve had him and his late wife to dinner!  A most charming man.  He is well-liked in Salvador, well-respected.  A French agent – hah, not at all!”

“This is a waste of time,” Orsini said.  He pushed off from the wall, and stalked toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Why should I talk to the monkey, when I can go upstairs and talk to the organ-grinder?” 

“My lord!” Dom Rodrigo protested.  “You can’t!” 

“Of course I can!”  Orsini called back.  "Observe!"  He opened the door and swept out.  Dom Rodrigo dashed after him.  

“Where’s he going?”  Da Gama asked Ramage. 

“I don’t know.”  Ramage turned back to the Governor.  “Governor – O'Reilly _is_ a French spy.  And I believe that he has a rendezvous with a French vessel, this very night.  The ship's name is the _Diligente._ She’s the same ship that tried to capture the _Santa Catarina_ and the _Gaviota_.  Her captain is named Robert Kerguelen.  And I know that he’s sending a boat ashore, this very night, to speak to O’Reilly.” 

“How do you know?”  the Governor asked. 

"Because one of my own officers is riding away to meet him tonight.” 

“Jackson?” Kenton asked.  He exchanged glances with Hill. 

“Jackson is riding into a trap,” Ramage said.  "O'Reilly is a French agent, and tonight he has a rendezvous with a French vessel.  Let me take a few of my Marines to O'Reilly's house, and I can prove it!" 

"Captain," Da Gama said.  "No.  it is out of the question.  This is all based on supposition and guesswork.  You have no evidence." 

 There was a commotion at the door.  It swung open with a bang.  Two footmen barged in, and banged their staffs on the floor, and barked something officious in Portuguese. The Governor and his aides whirled around. 

Ramage shoved himself away from the table. 

It was Dom João himself.  All around the table gave way to the ruler of the Portuguese Empire. 

“What is this story that I have just heard about a French spy in my city?” Dom João asked.  He wore an embroidered dressing-gown over silk breeches and stockings; Orsini must have disturbed him at his prayers. 

There was a brief silence around the table.  Men’s eyes flickered to each other, shadowed in the light of the candle. 

“Please speak,” the Prince said, sounding tired. 

“Sir,” Ramage said.  “I have discovered this night a spy, masquerading as an Irishman.  One of my officers has been lured to him in a trap...”  Quickly, he explained to the Prince Regent about O’Reilly’s true identity, and the presence of the Diligente.  

Dom João’s thick-lipped face was sad.  “A French agent in Salvador, all this time!” he mourned.  “In the very bosom of Our empire.  And We have delivered Our royal persons directly to him.” 

“Sir,” the Governor said, but the Prince held up one hand toward him, and the Governor lapsed into silence. 

Everyone stared at the Prince Regent.  Ramage was aware of his own strained breathing, and of Orsini’s presence at his back, and of the sound of the candle guttering softly in the hot air.  

Nobody interrupted the monarch.  Dom João had a reputation for moving slowly, and thinking slowly, and coming to decisions slowly, but then again, why would he hurry?  Nobody would ever interrupt him, or hassle him to make a snap decision, and that meant he could take all the time in the world to make the correct choices.  Ramage was starting to think that perhaps Dom João was nobody’s fool. 

“Very well,” the Prince said, breaking the silence. 

“Thank you, Sire,” Ramage said.  “As soon as I know where O’Reilly can be found, I will fetch my Marines, and go find him.” 

“No,” Dom João said.  “Much as I love and honour my British allies, I will not have your soldiers marching on my soil.  You may have a dozen of Our own Portuguese troops, under the command of a Portuguese officer.  Governor, your aides will find a map, and tell Captain Ramage where O’Reilly keeps his domestic establishment.” 

“Yes, Sire," Da Gama said.  "It will be as Your Highness commands.” 

And just like that, the argument was ended.  Royal power swept aside all the Governor’s objections.  Absolute power had decided in Ramage’s favour, over all the evidence. 

At the same time, Ramage knew that the risk was all his.  No ruler could ever look as if he ever made mistakes - not even Gianna ever conceded that she was wrong.  If Ramage was wrong, _he_ would carry the blame, not Dom João.  He could have caused irreparable harm to British interests in Brazil, if he was wrong – but he knew he was not wrong.

“Thank you, Sire,” he said, bowing. 

“Keep me informed of the result in the morning,” the Prince Regent ordered.  "Governor, good night."    He turned on his heel and walked away.  Everyone around the table bowed low.  The footmen hoisted the tall candles, and followed their master. 

“You’ll get a dozen men,” the Governor said.  “And you can all go to Mr O’Reilly, and see that you were wrong about him.  My aide will tell you where he lives.”  He turned on his heel and left.  Ramage sensed that he was annoyed that his monarch had sided with the foreigners. 

“I will come with you,” Dom Rodrigo said to Ramage.  “You’ll need me to translate.” 

“Good,” Ramage said.  "I need you to round up those soldiers.  Have them issued with weapons, and tell them to be ready for a night action. If I only have twelve soldiers I’ll fight with twelve soldiers!"

"I'll make sure they're all horsed and armed.  And I'll find horses for you and your officers as well."  He bowed and left the room. 

Ramage turned to his officers.   “Mr Kenton,  I want _you_ to go back to the ship.  Ready the ship to sail tomorrow evening.” 

"Sir!" Kenton said.  "Surely I should come with you?" 

"No," Ramage said.  "The only officer in the ship is Mr Loach!  If anything happens to me, I need you to take command of the ship!   Ready the _Dido_ for sea tomorrow, and inform Captain Walker of where I am." 

 “Aye aye, sir,” Kenton said, reluctantly. 

"And Mr Orsini," Ramage turned to the boy. 

“I’m coming with you, sir,” Orsini said.  He shifted to Italian.  “He’s my friend too, Uncle.  I am coming.” 

Ramage knew a lost argument when he saw one.  He nodded.  “All right.  So that’s me, you, Mr Hill, and Mr Martin."

The door opened.  The Portuguese aide-de-camp was back.  He had a large map, and he unrolled it on the table and set weights upon it.  The land mass of Salvador lay on the centre of the map like a great slug.  Ramage and his officers immediately crowded around it.

“O’Reilly will have two addresses, I’ll wager,” Ramage said.  “One here in town, and one on the coast where the French privateers send their messengers to meet him.  And he’ll be at the house on the coast right now.  You said Jackson had a horse?”

“He did,” Orsini agreed.  

“He wouldn’t have a horse if he was meeting O’Reilly in the city.  He's on the coast.” 

“Mr O’Reilly has a house, here,” the aide said in English, pointing to the map.  “A country house, in a small estate.  Here. You see it, _Senhor?”_

“I see it,” Ramage said.  “Right on the Atlantic shore.  And do you see the soundings here, gentlemen?” 

“Not a sheltered anchorage, but easy enough to land boats on the beach,” Kenton ran his finger up and down the stretch of beach.  _“This_ is why the Prince Regent isn’t planning on staying here – it would cost them millions to fortify all these miles of beaches from a seaborne attack.” 

“It’s not too far away,” Orsini said, tracing his finger along a road that led from the city across the centre of the peninsula to the beach.  “A man could ride that easily in one night.”

“That’s where he’ll be,” Ramage said.  “And that’s where he’s arranged to meet Jackson.  Dom Rodrigo, can you find this place?” 

“I can find this place,” Dom Rodrigo agreed.   He was suddenly serious again.   Spies were an enemy he could fight. 

 _“Good_ man!” Ramage said.  He picked up the paperweight, and the map rolled itself up with a leathery voice. 

“If you’re wrong, you’ll have to apologise to Senhor O’Reilly for disturbing him at his private residence,” the aide said. 

 _“If,”_ Ramage said.  He looked at his officers.  Their eyes watched him in the candlelight.  “We haven’t a moment to lose, gentlemen!  So let’s go get our American back!” 

* * *

 

They walked to the cavalry stables where Dom Rodrigo had sent a messenger ahead of them to rouse out a dozen troopers.  The Portuguese soldiers were tacking up their horses by lamplight.  The horses seemed surprised to be taken out of their stables and saddled, jerking at their bridles and knocking their hooves on the ground eagerly. 

"This is Lieutenant Sousa," Dom Rodrigo introduced Ramage to the troopers' officer.  "I have explained to him where we are going, and why.  He says he knows the place, too." 

"Good," Ramage said. 

 _“Sim,”_ the Portuguese officer agreed, saluting to Ramage so that he knew Ramage understood. 

 _“Sim,”_ Ramage said, returning the salute.

Sousa turned away.  He gave an order, and the Portuguese troopers swung up to their saddles.  Other troopers came out, leading other horses.   A man led a horse over to Ramage and offered him the end of the reins. 

 _“Obrigado,”_ Ramage said, collecting the reins, and holding the horse just below the bit.  The Portuguese officer walked over and spoke to Dom Rodrigo. 

“This is Mr Sousa's horse," Dom Rodrigo explained.  "He says he’s a good horse, not much lazy, but please not to ask him to jump because he hates it, and then he bucks.” 

“Tell him I’ll take good care of him,” Ramage said, and the officer patted his mount’s neck and turned away. 

Ramage turned the horse by the bit, and led it up to the block of stone used as a mounting block.  He pulled down the stirrup iron, and used the stone to bounce himself up into the saddle.  He settled himself firmly into the deep cavalry saddle, adjusting his stirrup lengths.  

The lieutenant was leading another horse to the mounting block behind him.  “Is Mr Sousa coming with us?” Ramage called to Dom Rodrigo.

“He says this is too good an opportunity to pass up.  He does not often have any real enemies to fight here in Salvador,” Dom Rodrigo said, from where he was already mounted. 

Ramage turned around in the saddle.  His officers were mounting as well.  The horses were milling around, lit from below by the lanterns in the stable yard.  Their bodies were huge and black, and they seemed to fill the yard.  Ramage was leading an expedition of twelve Brazilian cavalrymen, two Portuguese officers, three Englishmen, and a Volterrani.  If he was wrong, he was going to look like a fool in front of a multilingual parade – but he _knew_ he was not wrong.

“All right, let’s go,” he called, and clicked his horse into movement.  “Dom Rodrigo, Lieutenant Sousa, take the van.  I mean, lead the way, if you please!” 

The horses and riders filed out through the barracks gate, and into the street.  They rode over the cobbles, hooves echoing in the dark. 

In a few minutes, they were leaving the built-up town.  They were challenged once by a patrol, enforcing the curfew, but as soon as the watchmen saw their uniforms and their white faces they were allowed to pass.  They left the city behind them, and soon they were jogging along a road through the darkness, stretched out in a loose pack of horses and riders.  The moon gave just enough light to pick out the white facings of the British uniforms.

“This is a fine raiding party, sir,”  Orsini said, on the horse next to Ramage.  “Three Englishmen, one Volterrani and fourteen Portuguese, off to rescue an American from the clutches of an Irishman.”

Ramage turned in his saddle.  “He’s not just an American.”   

“No,” Orsini said.  “He is not.” 

They rode in silence, interrupted by the sounds of horses’ hooves and the clinking of the soldiers’ equipment.   

“Sir, you know we would follow you anywhere, but … are you sure about this?”

 “If I’m wrong, we’ll find Jackson and O’Reilly sitting together, and reminiscing about the good old days outside Yorktown. And then I’ll look like a fool.  But I don’t think so.  I _know_ I'm right.”   

He had not a shred of evidence, but he was sure.  The French agent who had spoken to Pascal was O'Reilly.  He’d contacted Jackson using an old name, because he only _knew_ Jackson’s old name.   The French had learned who Thomas Jackson was – which was a problem for another day – and somehow O'Reilly knew how to get Jackson to come out to him. And O'Reilly _was_ making his move tonight, because Pascal had said that tonight he could escape from Brazil, if he wanted to.  The French agent had a rendezvous with a French privateer tonight. 

Ramage did not have all the answers yet, but he was sure.  It had all fitted together in his head.  Jackson was riding into a French trap. 

Ramage kicked his horse. “Faster,” Ramage said.  “We’ve hours of riding to catch up!  Come on!”    

The horse broke into a gallop, and around him the rest of the horses accelerated too.  Ramage’s horse was sweating heavily within minutes as they raced along the road, riding as fast as they dared in the dark.  The air was filled with the thudding of hooves, and the grunting breaths of the horses.  For a long time, they galloped in a stream down the road. 

They had to keep up a quick pace.  Jackson had hours to ride the same distance, but Jackson was a skilled horseman and he would have taken his time.  Ramage had to make up that distance in a hurry.  They had to catch up with Jackson before O'Reilly made his move. 

Ramage drove the horse with his heels, harder and harder.  The horse's electric gallop slowed to a thudding canter but he did not let it stop. 

“These horses are not going to last!” he shouted to Dom Rodrigo. 

“They don’t have to!” Dom Rodrigo shouted back.  “We are nearly there!”

 _“Capitao!”_ the Portugese officer shouted. 

“Here!” Dom Rodrigo called. “This is the place!  We turn here!” 

“Hold!” Ramage called to his officers, sitting back in his saddle, and reining in his horse. 

The animal slowed immediately to a walk, tired head dropping away from the saddle.  Ramage leaned forward out of the saddle, and patted its sweat-soaked neck.  “Good boy,” he said.  "Very good boy."  The horse blew out its nostrils, and flapped its ears tiredly. 

The Portuguese officer wheeled his horse, and spoke to Dom Rodrigo, pointing off to the side of the road. 

“He says we go down here,” Dom Rodrigo translated from Ramage’s other side.  "Off the main road." 

“How far?” 

Dom Rodrigo asked, and was answered.  “He says not far,” Dom Rodrigo said.  “A few minutes.  The beach is just the other side of the crest.  He says he has been here before.” 

The other riders were coming to a stop around them in a melee of stamping hooves and equine sweat.   The stragglers were catching up with them. 

 “We’ll dismount,” Ramage decided, “and go in on foot.”  He drew his horse to a stop, and kicked his feet out of the stirrups.  When he dropped to the sand next to his horse, his knees  wanted to buckle under him.  His legs felt like strips of fabric from the unaccustomed work. 

Dom Rodrigo explained to Sousa, and Sousa passed his orders on to his men.  They tied up their tired horses in the dark, securing them to trees, and left one Portuguese trooper on guard.  The Portuguese officer collected his men in whispers, and they walked together down the track.  Ramage took the lead, with Dom Rodrigo at his side.  He could hear the sounds of the men behind him.  Boots digging into the soil; heavy breathing.   Nobody spoke.  They walked along, guided by moonlight glowing off the sand. 

The forest was dark, pressing down around them.  He could hear the nocturnal noises of the forest – insects ringing, frogs singing.  Under the singing insects he could hear distant drums, or surf – he wasn’t sure which, but the sound thrummed at the edge of his hearing like a distant threat.  He couldn’t ignore the sense that he was being watched by something, waiting in the alien darkness. 

It dawned on him that if his enemy had set out sentries, they would be discovered immediately, but it was too late to worry about that now. 

An animal screamed.  Ramage stopped so suddenly that the trooper behind him walked into his back. 

“What’s that?”  Martin hissed. 

Sousa said something in Portuguese, and Dom Rodrigo repeated it. 

“A bird.  No danger.” 

No danger; not that Ramage would have known the difference.   He was not comfortable in this tropical forest, and he knew it.  

“Come on,” Ramage said.  He led them on, taking the lead again.

The track began to trend downhill.  It crested a final dune, and opened into a clear space under the moonlight.  There was a house in front of him. In the distance, he could hear the sea.  The surf rumbled, carrying far in the windless night air. 

Ramage’s men came to a stop around him.  “Down,” he whispered, sinking to his knees, and the men around him took to the shadows.  The dark Portuguese uniforms disappeared into the foliage. 

The house was dark and quiet.  The white façade glowed like bone.  The space between the house’s front columns was a gaping cavern. 

“A horse, captain. See it?”  Orsini whispered. 

Ramage could see it.  It was yoked to the front porch.  He could make out a hump of haunch and neck. 

“Jackson’s horse?”  he asked. 

“I can’t tell.” 

The bird screamed again.  Something else screamed back.  The hairs on the back of Ramage’s neck climbed toward his scalp. 

“Dom Rodrigo,” he hissed.  “Tell Mr Sousa his men will take the left.  My officers, take the right.” 

Dom Rodrigo whispered briefly in Portuguese. 

“And you, sir?” Orsini asked. 

“I’m going to go and knock on the door.”  He stood up and set off alone. 

He walked carefully up the centre of the drive, his boots crunching on gravel.  The horse tethered at the front door turned its head back curiously to watch him. 

“Hello, old fellow,” he said, and felt the horse’s shoulder.  “How are you?  There’s a good boy.” 

Its coat was not sweaty; it had had enough time to cool down.  Its stirrups were run up, but it had not been unsaddled.  Whoever had ridden it here did not mean to stay long.  He passed the horse’s head, and climbed the steps to the porch. 

Surely a country house like this would have servants guarding the master’s door at all hours?  Large estates never really slept, he remembered.  Even the slave curfew had to be enforced by men who were themselves awake.  This house was too dark.  There was no-one here at all. It was empty; abandoned for the summer.   

But Jackson’s horse was here.  

Ramage climbed the steps to the front porch.  Buckets of tropical flowers scented the night air.  The front door was before him.  He raised the knocker, and rapped hard on the brass plate.  His knocking seemed as loud as pistol shots; brusque.  The sound must have echoed in the whole frame of the house, but no voices called out in answer.  

He turned the handle of the front door.  The door was not locked, and he pushed it open with one hand.  “Jackson?” he called into the depths of the house.

No answer. 

Ramage drew his sword and went inside.  He stepped quickly to the side so that he was not silhouetted against the moonlight.   

He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust.  He could feel carpet under his boots, and smell tropical mould in the depths of the house.  He was standing in an long entrance hall.  He paused for a moment, then walked down the hall behind the point of his sword.  The floorboards creaked under his weight, but he collided with no furniture. 

Candle light glowed through an open door.  In the night it was as brilliant as sunlight.  Ramage walked to the light, and stopped. 

O’Reilly was sitting at a desk, alone, facing the door. 

“Captain Ramage,” O’Reilly said.  He did not look surprised to find a naval officer with a drawn sword in his house.  The light was coming from a single candle on the desk in front of him.   

“Mr O’Reilly,” Ramage said, walking into the room. 

“You’re here alone?”  O’Reilly asked.  There were a pair of whisky glasses on the desk in front of him, greased warmly by the glow of the candle.  One glass still held half a shot. 

“So are you,” Ramage said.  “Where are your servants?  Your slaves?”

“I sent them all to town.”

“The better to entertain private guests?”  Ramage said.  “Where is Thomas Jackson?” 

“Your American friend?  How should I know?” 

“So you drink your whisky from two glasses at a time?”   Ramage pointed his sword to the two glasses.  “I know Jackson is here.  I know that you wrote to him, and that he came to you.”

“Why would I write to him?”  O’Reilly asked.  “You said he wasn’t the man I thought he was.” 

“You wrote to him,” Ramage said.  “I don’t know the whole story yet – I don’t know how, or why.  But I _know_ Jackson is here.  Where is he, O’Reilly?” 

“He isn’t here,” O’Reilly said.  He pushed his chair back, and got up, slowly.  The single candle on the table lit up the shadows around him.  “Would you care for a drink, Captain?” 

“Not particularly,” Ramage said.  He didn’t lower the point of the sword. 

“I think I’ll have a shot of _cachaça.”_

O’Reilly turned away from Ramage.  He moved to the sideboard, and opened the doors of the liquor cabinet.  His broad blue coat blocked out the light from the candle. 

 _“Cachaça,”_ O’Reilly said, away from Ramage.  “The taste of Brazil.  I must admit I’ve become quite partial to _cachaça...”_

There was a clink from the shadows.  Ramage stiffened.  _That_ didn’t sound like glass –!

The silence was shattered by a scream outside.  _“Aux armes!”_

O’Reilly spun like a snake, but Ramage was already lungeing.  He drove the sword out in a single deep punch into O’Reilly’s chest.  The pistol roared flame in Ramage’s face; a painful blast in his ears. 

Then silence. 

The pistol dropped with a thump.  Ramage was aware of his own harsh breathing, and O’Reilly’s.  The room was almost silent.  Beyond these walls men were shouting, and musket shots were crackling.  There was a fire-fight out there, but inside this room there was only quiet death. 

O’Reilly was sagging down the front of the sideboard.  His weight dragged at the sword and Ramage twisted the hilt to pull the blade out.  The blade came free with a wrench. 

O’Reilly collapsed to the floor, his breath breaking from him in a groan.  His hands came up to cradle his chest.  Blood rippled over his fingers.  Ramage levelled the sword, staring down past his own thumb and the basket hilt at O’Reilly’s white face. 

“Where’s Jackson?”  he whispered. 

“How did you _know?”_

 _“Where is Thomas Jackson?_ ”  Ramage hissed, his teeth clenched. 

“The French,” O’Reilly gasped for breath.  “The French…”  His eyes rolled up.  _“Vive la rev…  la revo…”_

There was a crash in the hall behind him.  Ramage whirled to face the new threat, snarling. 

 “Captain!”  Orsini shouted. 

“I’m in here!” Ramage shouted.  “I’m all right!” 

Orsini and Martin crashed into the room.  Both had drawn swords.  “There are French sailors out there!” Martin shouted.  “They tried to ambush the Portuguese!” 

“Where’s Jackson?” Orsini asked.  His eyes flew to O’Reilly. 

“Jackson’s gone,” Ramage said. 

“They must have taken him away!”  Orsini said.  He was clasping his stiletto in his other hand, ready to fight _main-gauche._  

“You’re too late,” O’Reilly whispered from the floor.  “You have killed me, but you are too late…” 

 _“Stronzo,”_ Orsini hissed, stiletto raised.  “If my friend is harmed you may yet _hope_ that the Captain has killed you!” 

There was a Portuguese voice, cracking out orders.  The French had had the element of surprise, but the Portuguese troopers were trained soldiers, not sailors, and they were fighting back with discipline.  Ramage could pick out Dom Rodrigo’s voice, and the Portuguese officer.  By the sound of it, the French were being driven back on the beach. 

“Come on!” Ramage shouted, raising the sword.  “Let’s go get our American back!”

He dashed out into the hall, Orsini and Martin close behind him.  There had to be a back door to this house, surely!  He turned – and moonlight glowed over a fanlight over a door.  He ran down the corridor to the back door, and shot one hand across just in time to stop Martin throwing himself heedlessly out. 

“English!  English!” Ramage bellowed.  _“Inglezi!_   We’re coming out!”

“It’s clear!”  he heard Hill’s voice.  “Come out!”    

 _“Now_ we go out!” he snapped to Martin, and spun out through the open door.  “Mr Hill!”  He leaped across the porch. 

“Sir!” Hill ran up to the porch, his white facings glowing.  “They’re French sailors, sir!  They’re falling back to the beach!”

“We can’t let them go!” Ramage shouted.  “They’ve taken Jackson with them!  Tell the Portuguese to cut off their retreat!  Come on!” 

He jumped off the porch, straight over the steps, and landed on grass.  He ran across the lawn, aware that his officers were racing behind him.  He spotted muzzle-blasts flashing at the side of the house – _crack, crack, crack_. 

Ramage didn’t want to lead his men into the middle of that fight, and get shot from both sides.  Someone was shrieking for his mother.  A French officer was screaming his orders – _Get back to the boats, disengage, disengage, disengage now…!_

Whatever the enemy wanted to do had to be denied!  He had to get around the skirmish to the beach!   They had to cut the French off at the beach, outflank them before they got back to their boat so that they could not retreat back to sea! 

“Dom Rodrigo!  Dom Rodrigo!” 

“Capitao!” 

“Follow me to the beach!” Ramage roared.  “We have to stop them _leaving!_   We’ll cut them off at the beach!  Come on!” 

Dom Rodrigo roared in Portuguese, and Ramage ran on.  The gardens ended in a curved wall, terminated with some sort of architectural folly.  Twin staircases seemed to curl down on either side of it.  Down to the beach?  One of them, or both of them?  Ramage picked one as he ran. 

“Martin – Orsini – that way!  Hill, with me!”  Ramage panted, pointing with the sword. 

He jinked left, and leaped down the stairs three at a time.  His boots crunched on wood chips, and he picked up his pace.  Below the folly, the trees closed briefly over his head, and then opened again.  He hurtled down the path, feeling the grit-grate of wood-chips at each pounding step.  The trees opened, finally giving way to open air, and Ramage was running on sand, heels sinking.  The beach was a wide belt in front of him.  Martin tripped and fell flat, and Ramage left him behind, running out onto the moonlit sand. 

There was a boat on the sand, beached.  Beyond it, in the sea, something big and black floated beyond the breakers.  Another boat was lying off the beach, held steady in the surf by men in the water.  He saw the glint of wet oars.  They were going, launching their boat just seconds ahead of their pursuers! 

For a moment Ramage’s mind reeled in _déjà vu._   Surely this beach was in Tuscany?  Surely Gianna was in that boat in the surf?  Surely the French cavalry were galloping up behind him to stop Ramage from rescuing her?  The Torre di Buranaccio was just behind him – he could feel it.  Surely if he stopped running he would see it; old stone block glowing against the moonlight, right behind him, as if he was back in that night, on that beach. 

“Jackson!” he shouted.  

And Ramage realized that he could hear a very familiar voice.  Jackson was in that boat!  He was shouting, and fighting. 

“Jackson!” Ramage shouted.  He picked up speed as the sand became wet and firm.  He ran as fast as he could, and just as he passed the beached boat, something jumped out at him.

He had time to see something moving fast , and then something crunched against his skull in a burst of brilliant stars.   

* * *

 

Pain came back before consciousness. 

Ramage felt dazed, and grabbed at the thoughts rushing through his head.  He guessed it was a nightmare, so he would soon wake up safely in his cabin; but for the moment his mind was apparently separated from his body.

“Captain,” a nasal voice was saying, quietly, but insistently.  “Captain.  Captain.” 

Ramage opened his eyes into darkness. His body still seemed remote, and he was startled to find himself sitting hunched over with his face pressed against a wooden plank.  He raised his head, and found that his cheek hurt where the sharp corner of the plank had been cutting into his cheekbone. 

“Yes,” he croaked, blearily.  God, was that his voice - a rasping croak like a holystone being dragged across a dry deck?

“Thank God,” said the voice.  “I was starting to think we’d lost you there.  You’ve taken a nasty bump to the head.” 

“I’m awake,” Ramage croaked.  He could feel that his body was being rocked from side to side, and he was crammed into an uncomfortable corner.  He was in a boat, he realized; half-sitting, half-lying on the bottom boards, and the pain in his cheek came from the thwart that he had been lying against. 

“Where am I?”  he croaked.  His stomach wanted to rise.  His head hurt, his face hurt, and he wanted to be sick.  He was desperately uncomfortable, and he wanted to slide back into the warm pillows of unconsciousness and sleep. 

 “You’re in the _Diligente_ ’s boat,” the nasal voice said.  “We’re going out to meet them.  We’re prisoners.”  

It was Jackson’s voice, Ramage realized, although Ramage couldn’t see him.  He put his hand to his face, and then to his head.  His fingers found his hair dried into rough spikes, and he poked at the dried spikes and received a stab of pain.  He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think. 

A moment ago, he had been running on the beach, trying to rescue Gianna… The French cavalry had been galloping over the sand to catch them…

No, that was wrong.  He had been galloping himself.  He had been riding hard through the night, trying to rescue _Jackson_ _._   The memories flooded back into his mind, filling his brain like a bucket under a pump.  Jackson had been lured out by the French spy.  Ramage had been trying to rescue Jackson.  He had spoken to O’Reilly, alone in the big dark house, and O'Reilly had tried to shoot him, and so Ramage stabbed him.  He was still unsure of how he had got from the house to the boat, but he knew that something had gone very wrong. 

“Are you tracking up?”  Jackson asked. 

“Yes,” Ramage croaked.  

“Do you still have your knife?” 

“Knife,” Ramage repeated.  His mind worked through the question.  Did he have a knife?  Yes, he had a knife.  It was a throwing knife, slipped into the top of his boot.  He felt for his own knee, and his fingers found the top of the ivory handle.  “Yes, I have a knife.” 

“Good,” Jackson said, “Because we’re going to have to fight if we don’t want to end up in the Temple Prison…”   

The Temple Prison.  That was in Paris.  They didn’t want to go to Paris.  “I can fight,” Ramage agreed. 

“What are you two talking about?” another voice demanded.  It took Ramage a moment to understand the words, because the man spoke in French. 

“He is not knowing where he is!”  Jackson complained.  His French was terrible.  “Why are you hitting him so hard?  You are breaking his skull!” 

“Stop talking!” the Frenchman said. “The surgeon will look at him when we get back to the ship!  Silence, until we get there!” 

Jackson fell silent. 

Ramage thought his way through the conversation.  He did know where he was.  But Jackson was lying.  So Jackson wanted him to pretend he didn’t know where he was. 

He let out a theatrical groan, and slumped further down into the bottom of the boat.  They sat in silence.  The thwart was a hard line against his back, and he pulled his knees up to meet his chest.  His head hurt, and he could almost feel his sluggish thoughts squeezing through his brain.  He was in no condition to fight, but he trusted Jackson.  He would wait for Jackson to tell him when to fight. 

The boat was moving briskly through the water.  The stars were a sweep overhead, but the boat was dark.  Ramage was sitting near the stern.  The sail overhead blotted out a section of the stars.  He could feel how they were stepping briskly over the sea. 

“All right, it’s time,” the man in the sternsheets of the boat said. He spoke with a thick Norman accent.   “Louis, send up the signal for the ship.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

One of the Frenchmen worked busily with a flint and steel.  Click-click-click!  The light flickered as the tinder caught, and then steadied as the taper was thrust inside a lantern.  An angelic blue glow rose around them.  The glass shield of the lantern was blue.  The sailor holding the lantern started drawing on a line, hand-over-hand, and the blue light rose smoothly to the masthead. 

Ramage could see where he was now.  He was sitting in a single-masted boat, bobbing along on the sea.  Jackson was watching him closely.  The blue light cast his cadaverous face into deep shadows.  By the awkward way his arms were twisted behind him, he could see that Jackson’s hands were tied behind his back.  Moving his eyes hurt, but Ramage counted the men in the boat, carefully.  One at the tiller; two others on his own side, one of whom was wearing a French naval uniform.  One Frenchman on the weather side, sitting next to Jackson.  One in the boat’s bow.  Five Frenchmen, then. 

His nausea was abating, he realized.  He looked at Jackson, and nodded his head.  Whenever Jackson was ready, he would fight. 

“Monsieur Charles, I am needing to pee,” Jackson announced, in his jaw-breaking French. 

“So go over the side,” the French officer ordered. 

“My hands are tying!”

“So, hold it until we get there!”

“I can’t,” Jackson complained.  “I am peeing in your boat!”

“Don’t you dare!” 

“Do you think I _want_ to?” Jackson complained.  “It’s not my fault!  I am a man of years of ages!  I am needing it right now!” 

 “You!” the French officer barked, and pointed at one of his men.  “Untie his hands!  And _you_ – don’t try anything funny!” 

One of the Frenchmen close to Jackson clambered over the thwart to him.  Ramage drew his legs up under him, ready to move.  He watched the Frenchman, waiting, and his fingers found the hilt of the knife. 

“Please hurry,” Jackson said. 

The Frenchman leaned over him.  “There!” the Frenchman said.  “Now go!” 

 _“Merci beaucoup,”_ Jackson said.  He stood up and shoved the Frenchman over the side in the same movement. 

Ramage surged to his feet. 

The Norman officer was already shouting and leaping toward Jackson, jumping over the thwarts, and Ramage jumped up to meet him.  The knife slammed into the officer’s stomach.  The man screamed as Ramage stabbed him again, hard smashing stabs, _three, four, five!_   The knife was twisted out of Ramage’s wet fingers as the man fell.   

A pistol crashed, stabbing flame.  Ramage spun toward the stern,  his eyes squeezed against the anguish in his skull.  The man at the tiller was dropping one pistol, and raising another.  Ramage grabbed at the pistol’s barrel.  _“Give me that!”_  

The Frenchman didn’t let go of the pistol but hit at Ramage’s face with his free fist, shouting at him.  They wrestled for the pistol, twisting back and forth.  Ramage couldn’t twist the pistol out of the Frenchman’s hand, and the barrel was waving erratically, so he pulled his head back and slammed his skull into the man’s nose.  Stars flashed in his eyes but the Frenchman crumpled.  Ramage grabbed for his legs and shove him backwards over the tiller. 

Two down!  He turned, stomach heaving, so that he nearly fell over the side himself.  “Jackson!” he shouted. 

On the weather gunwale, Jackson was wrestling with one man.  The other was turning to him.  A pistol was coming up in the man’s hand, lining in Jackson’s direction.  No time to climb under the boat’s boom to help!  No time to find his knife!  No time, no time!  The pistol lined on Jackson’s chest. 

Ramage grabbed the tiller extender and yanked hard.   

The shot went wild as the boat rocketed out of control.  The boat whirled, the wind suddenly coming from the other side.  The boom shuttled across in a slam gybe, smashing into the man with the pistol.  Suddenly, all of them were fighting to hold on.  “Stop that! Stop that!” someone screamed.  “You’re going to sink us!” 

Ramage shrieked with laughter.  They were in an uncontrolled gybe, and still going.  They were tipping – they were capsizing – the gunnel was rolling up –   

Ramage felt the world flip upside down.  He fell, and the water closed over his head.  His head broke the surface, and he grabbed for the boat with his hands. 

It was pitch dark, and he was swimming.  The boat’s hull was over his head.  The mast, the boom and the clutter of sails and rigging were roiling dangerously in the water, trying to snake around his legs as he trod water.  Where were the enemies?  Where was Jackson? 

“Jackson!” he shouted into the darkness, gripping the boat with one hand.  “Jackson!”

He heard a muffled shout. 

Ramage’s hair had come loose, and was clinging wetly to his face.  He clawed it out of his eyes so that he could breath, and think.  The boat was still afloat.  Dry wood, floating on its own bouyancy?  It didn’t matter; if it had not sunk immediately it could still be righted and bailed out.  He reached up and grabbed onto the boat. 

“Jackson!” 

Where were the Frenchmen?  There had been two, but Ramage could not hear any splashing or shouting.  Either Jackson was dealing with them both or they were both quietly drowning. 

“Jackson!”

“I’m here!”  

“Let’s right this thing!”  Ramage yelled across to him in the dark.   He swam aft – he thought it was aft – splashing around until he found a floating rope.  He followed the rope underwater by feel. 

“I’m casting off the jib sheet!”  They had to cast off the sails before they tried to right the boat, or they would never get the weight of the canvas out of the water.  “I can’t find the – can’t find the –!” his fingers found the cleat,  “No, here it is.  Jesus why won’t you just – _there!_   Got it!  Jackson!  I’ve cast off the main sheet!” 

“I’m moving around to the stern!” 

“Meeting you there!” 

He took hold of the sheet and threw it up, over the hull of the boat.  He swam around the stern of the boat, keeping one hand on the hull.   If the boat drifted away, all was lost – the wind would take it faster than he could swim after it.  The grasp of the sea was picking him up in its fist, and trying to roll him away from the boat’s side.  It boomed hollowly on the upturned hull. 

Jackson met him in the dark, holding on with one arm to the swell of the boat’s bottom.  “Are you bloody _mad?”_   he shouted. 

“I figured they couldn’t swim!” Ramage said.  “The other two?” 

“Dealt with one.  Don’t know where the other went.”  Jackson pinched his nose, and blew seawater out of his nostrils.  “The boat’s still floating!”

“Let’s get her righted.”  Ramage clawed his wet hair off his face again.  “I threw the sheet over.  There!”  He grabbed the dark line, hanging down over the raised gunwale of the boat above him.

“Get up on the keel!” Jackson said.  “I’m not heavy enough to right her myself.” 

Ramage took in the slack of the sheet, and used it to pull himself out of the water onto the boat’s long blade keel.  He felt the boat move. 

“It’s coming,” he grunted.  He had to hang onto the sheet with all his weight.  Hanging from the hull with both legs against the keel, he felt like a tick, clinging to the boat’s side, and then he was rolling downward again as the boat rolled obediently upright.  Always a small miracle, the way a boat did what it was designed to do. 

 “Here it comes, here it comes!” 

He reached up his hand as the boat’s gunwale came down.  Jackson’s arm reached up alongside his own, and they dragged the boat down to meet them. 

“I’ll hold her, you jump in,” Jackson shouted. 

“Got it!”  Ramage swam around the boat’s gunwale, holding on with one hand until he reached the stern.  It was riding low.  It wasn’t even difficult to hook his knee over the gunnel and roll himself in, and he found himself still sitting in the sea.  The boat was still full of water.  They’d righted it, but only its own bouyancy was keeping it afloat.  It wouldn’t take much of a heel to send it under again. 

He splashed his way over to the gunnel and leaned over to pull Jackson in.  “Bail like hell, or we’ll go down!” Ramage said, and started dashing water over the gunwale with both hands. 

“Where’s the bailer?” Jackson asked, casting about in the darkness under the thwarts.  

“Did they have one?” 

“Tied on with string.  Got it!” 

Jackson started bailing urgently, sending bucket after bucket over the side.  Ramage heard him grunting with effort, bailing hard.  He was giving Ramage twenty years – and _he_ was using the most efficient bailer.   

“Give _me_ that one,” Ramage said, climbing over the thwarts and ducking under the slack boom.  “You see if there’s another one.” 

He took the bailer from Jackson – a leather bucket, tied to the boat with a length of twine.  He dipped the bailer into the water, took up the weight and delivered it over the side in a splash.  Dip, lift, twist – dip, lift, twist – dip, lift, twist.  The boat was drifting sluggishly, barely riding on the water.  The sails were loose, the jib flogging wildly, but without power in the sails they were just drifting downwind on an even keel. 

Dip, lift, twist.    The water level – was it going down?   Dip, lift, twist.   

“I found the lantern,” Jackson said.  “Well, I guess it’s a bailer now.” 

Jackson sat down at the other gunwale, balancing Ramage’s weight, and dipping fast.  The lantern was smaller than the leather bucket, but it was better than bailing water with his hands. 

Dip, lift, twist. It was quiet, desperate work. The wind was icy-cold through Ramage’s wet clothes, but his arms and shoulders were soon burning. _Scoop, scoop, scoop_ – _bail, bail, bail._

To his surprise, he heard Jackson chuckle breathlessly as he bailed. “What’s funny?” he asked. 

“We’ve come a _long_ way down from the _Dido_.” 

Ramage couldn't help laughing. “Think of the prize money we’ll get!” Ramage panted, without looking up from his bailing. “You'll have _all_ the lower deck’s share.” 

“Huzzah. I’m rich,” Jackson panted.

It wasn’t much of a joke, but they both laughed. 

The water was well under the thwarts now. Ramage had to bend over to get at the water, his hand propped against the rough wood of the thwart, the boom moving just over his humped back. The only sound was the glomping and thumping of the boat’s loose rigging. They were getting the water down, slowly, incrementally, a quart at a time to shift what felt like tons of water. 

“I think that’s enough to get under way,” Ramage said, sitting back.

“You sure?” 

“We righted her once, we can right her again if we have to,” Ramage said, getting up. He dropped the bailer, and clambered toward the stern. “Take in the jib sheets. And don’t drop that lantern!” 

“Aye aye, sir!” Jackson said, automatically. He moved forward to find the jib.

Ramage reached down into the bottom of the boat, and found the main sheet floating in the water. He started drawing in the sail that had been flapping like wet laundry. Nice and slow… He sheeted in the sail. Not too tight; they didn’t want to heel too much. The main sail billowed out, filling, and Ramage felt the boat start to respond. Ramage found the end of the tiller with his other hand and sat down, his feet still in water. He heard the first gurgle of water at his side as the boat came back to life. 

“Not too much,” he called to Jackson. “Don’t sheet that jib too hard!” 

Just enough of a puff of breath to get them moving downwind. Gently… Ramage put the tiller over. The boat just ghosted along, barely drifting. Jackson was climbing about at the weather gunwale, sheeting in the jib. Ramage sat back with the tiller in one hand and the wet mainsheet in the other. His clothes were soaked. Within minutes he was shivering. 

“Do you know where we’re going?” Jackson called, from his perch on the windward gunwale. Ramage heard the bailer going again. 

“As long as we’re sailing due west, we’ll bump into Brazil.” 

“I kept an eye on the stars while you were out,” Jackson said. “I think we sailed north east by east.” 

“North east by east?” Ramage said. “How long?” 

“About an hour, I think,” Jackson said.

“I was out cold all that time?”

“I was starting to worry you weren’t coming back,” Jackson said. "That's a _long_ time to be knocked out. Sure you're all right?" 

“It hurts, but I’m all right,” Ramage said. His mind was clear again. The brief swim had cleared his head, as if the salt water had flushed his concussion out of him. 

He looked up at the stars. If they’d steered north-east by east, they needed to steer back south-east by east. He found the Southern Cross, and then the Pointer Stars. He walked his fingers down from the Pointer Stars, and put the tiller over until the bow was heading in the right direction. 

“How did you know where I was?” Jackson asked. 

"I figured it out."

"Yes, but how? I didn't tell anyone where I was going." 

“I put two and two together,” Ramage said. “Something about O’Reilly just didn’t hang together. He was asking too many questions. And then there was _your_ reaction when I mentioned Algernon Foxcroft. I couldn't figure out how Algernon Foxcroft and O'Reilly and Thomas Jackson all fitted together, until tonight. Tonight someone let slip that there was a French spy in Salvador. And then all the pieces fell together. O’Reilly was a French spy.

"He was." 

“But you knew that already," Ramage said, coldly. "O'Reilly was a French spy ... and you are an American one." 

There was silence. Ramage could not see Jackson’s face. Shock? Anger? 

Ramage didn’t know, but he was sure. Jackson was _not_ a deserter. He was a spy. 

Keeping himself hidden in Ramage’s despatches all these years? Refusing to talk about his past? The fact that he was able to slip seamlessly into any environment where he found himself. He hadn’t even blinked when Ramage asked him to go on a spying mission to Boulogne all those years ago. He hadn’t blinked at going ashore with Ramage in Tuscany – in fact, he had managed to set up a contact point between the Royal Navy and the local partisans in Port’ Ercole, where Ramage had failed in his mission and got himself caught. all on his own, effortlessly. That contact was still in place, because Gianna used it frequently. Ramage had failed in his mission and got himself caught but Jackson – _Jackson_ had made it look easy, because _he’d_ done it all before. Jackson was a spy. 

_Everything_ suddenly fell together into a new pattern. The little magnets went _click_ in his mind.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Ramage said, when the silence had gone on too long. “You _are_ a spy.” 

“I thought no-one knew.” 

“No-one knows!" Ramage promised. "Only me. And even I didn’t know until tonight. And as soon as I knew it, I _knew._ You are a spy.” 

“I _was_ a spy,” Jackson said. 

"Ah-ha," Ramage said. 

"I wasn't just a spy. I was a spy master. I ran other spies. I knew who was where, and who said what, and who spoke to whom, and when. I kept it all in my head. I was good at it, too. I never got caught. The British put a reward on Algernon Foxcroft's head, but obviously they never caught me.”

“And you _were_ an officer.”

“Staff officer,” Jackson admitted. “It made it easier to come and go as I needed.”

“And now?”

“And now,” Jackson was quiet for a moment. “Now, I am just Mr Thomas Jackson. And I never thought I would ever hear the name Algernon Foxcroft ever again.” 

“Then why are you here in the _Dido?”_ Ramage asked. “Why were you in the _Sibella?_ How do I know you’re not still a spy now?”

“I’m not. I am not on active service any more. Nobody knows where I am.” 

_“O’Reilly_ knew where you were,” Ramage pointed out. "The French know who you really are. Someone in the United States gave O'Reilly your name?”

“They didn’t.”

“How do you know that?” Ramage asked. 

“You promised not to pry into my business,” Jackson said. “You gave your word. I am not in that business any more.” 

“This is _my_ business. Our countries might still go to war over this Chesapeake business.” 

“I’m no danger to the ship!” Jackson said. “I’m not on active service any more. I walked away.” 

“Then how the blazes do the French know your name? Why on earth would O'Reilly go to all this trouble to capture you, if you weren't on active service?” 

“I can’t tell you.” 

“The French think you're still on active service. I can't sit here, as a British naval officer, and just take your word for it!” 

“God help me, I _can’t_ tell you! There are reasons I can't go home! And believe me, if you knew what I did, you wouldn’t sit there and talk to me, one officer to another.”

Something in Ramage’s mind rang with déjà vu. He’d heard that phrase before, hadn’t he? Yes, he had. Croucher had said almost exactly the same thing. 

_Guilt can rip your soul apart from the inside out,_ Jackson had told him once. 

“It can’t be _that_ bad,” Ramage said. 

“You don’t know,” Jackson said. 

Ramage waited for more, but Jackson said nothing.

After a minute of silence, Ramage reached down, and yanked the mainsheet out of the cleat. The boat immediately sagged upright, way coming off. They rocked back and forth, inert in the water. The sea carried them up and down on the crests, but the boat’s bow was no longer pressing forward

“What are you doing?” Jackson said.

“What does it look like?” Ramage said. “I’m stopping the boat. Look where we are, Jackson! We’re _miles_ away from anyone! Who’s going to hear us out here? The _fish?”_

“My past is not your problem.” 

“It is. I am _making_ it my problem. That’s what friends do, Jackson.” 

“I don’t want to burden you.” 

“Then let us burden each other,” Ramage said. “I’ll tell you _my_ secret, if you tell me yours.”

“You don’t keep secrets.”

Ramage laughed, bitterly. “I have a secret all my own.” 

Bitter silence from the other end of the boat. 

“If I tell you mine, you can tell me yours. And God help me, I _want_ to tell someone mine. I have to tell somebody." 

_“I can't imagine yours is as big as mine,”_ Jackson asked, as if sure he had misheard. 

“Nobody knows it but me. Not even Sarah. Not even Dr Bowen. I can’t carry it alone any more, except that sooner or later it's going to come out, and I don't know how to deal with that. There’s nobody here but us. And we re both officers.” 

The boat rocked from side to side. The rigging slapped against the mast. 

>“You don’t see me, though. Nobody does. I haven’t told anyone.”

“It can’t possibly be that bad.”

“It’s bad enough,” Ramage said. 

For a moment there was silence in the little boat. The rolling of the boat on the open sea was getting uncomfortable. They were swooping up and down on the waves. 

Ramage took in a deep breath. “I’m sterile.” 

He heard Jackson’s sharp breath, even over the sound of wind and water. 

“I’m _sterile!”_ Ramage repeated the word in case Jackson did not understand. It came out louder than he intended. 

“God!” Jackson said. “Are you sure?” 

“Not absolutely,” Ramage said. “But in all my life, not one of my … intimate friends … has ever fallen pregnant. Not one. I think I’m sterile.”

“I thought you used a _preservativo_ ,” Jackson said. 

“I didn’t,” Ramage said. “But nothing happened. Gianna and Sarah, and … others… and nothing happened. Something in me is _broken.”_

“Go to the Doctor,” Jackson said. “He can examine you, and set your mind at ease.” 

“I can’t,” Ramage said. “That would make it real. I can’t bear it to be real.” 

“But you can always foster an infant,” Jackson suggested. He was still trying to suggest solutions for a problem that could not be solved. 

“I can’t even do that,” Ramage said, bitterly. “Because the estate and the title must go to a legitimate male heir. And I could ask my father to break the entail on the estate, but that would mean going to him and telling him that I’m … that I’m going to let him down. I’m going to let them _all_ down. And how am I going to tell Sarah? My God, what have I done to Sarah? She doesn’t _know_ yet that she’s married a man who isn’t a man!” 

“You _are_ a man.” 

“I don’t _feel_ like a man!” Ramage snapped at him, angrily. 

“There must be something you can do!” Jackson said. “You’ll think of something. You always do.” 

“Not with this,” Ramage said. “This isn’t something that can be fixed. This is something that must just be endured. This is something I just have to… but it’s _not fair._ It’s not fair! And every time I turn around I get another reminder of it! Everywhere I look, _everyone_ else is having children! Loach has four! Hornblower had two! George Appleby has _five!_ _Five sons,_ for God’s sake! How the hell is _George Appleby_ more of a man than I am?” 

His anger choked him, so that for a moment he could not speak. It was such a simple thing, other men did it without even trying, and he couldn’t do it at all. It wasn’t fair. He needed an heir more than any of them ever would, but he couldn’t have one. 

“And I’m so angry about it!” he went on. “Yorke is probably going to have children with Isabella one day, and they’re going to be happy, and I can’t tell him how angry I am. And Hornblower’s little boy looked so much like him that I hated him for it. And then both of Horny’s children died in his arms, and then I hated _myself…”_

There were tears in his eyes, and he was grateful for the darkness that hid them. He couldn’t stop them from running; his eyes had tightened suddenly and the tears had simply escaped on their own. For a moment, he was blinded. 

The boat rolled in the water, and Jackson said nothing. 

"I'm broken inside," Ramage said. 

"You're not broken," Jackson said. "You're still a man. 

“I feel broken,” Ramage said. “But I need to have _someone_ see me.” 

“I see you,” Jackson said. “You’re nothing to be ashamed of. These things happen.”

“People will figure it out, eventually,” Ramage said. “I’ll have to tell my father, eventually. I’ll be the last of our line. The last Earl of Blazey. I want to leave the estate to Paolo. But now… I can’t bear it any more. It’s killing me, going around and around in my head.”

“I won’t tell anyone until you tell me.” 

"Good." 

Jackson drew in a deep breath. He seemed to be gathering his strength. Just when Ramage was sure that Jackson was not going to talk, he spoke. His voice was level. 

“The French found out Algernon Foxcroft's real name in Toulon.” 

Ramage rubbed his eyes. “Toulon?” 

“During the siege, in 1793.”

“You were in Toulon?” Ramage said, and then his muggy memory gave his answer. “Yes, you were. You were in the evacuation. You joined the _Sibella_ from one of Lord Hood’s ships.” 

“I was working,” Jackson said. 

“Spying?” 

“Yes.”

“On your own allies?” Ramage asked, incredulous. 

“We didn’t know if they _were_ our allies,” Jackson said. “We didn’t know whether our treaty with them still stood. They literally chopped up their government. And we owed France money. Rather a lot of money.” 

“I recall,” Ramage said. 

The French crown had lent money to the United States to finance their Revolution. After 1789, the United States claimed that the Republic was a different state to the one that lent them the money in the first place, and refused to repay the loan. The French retaliated by attacking American shipping; the Americans sent their tiny Navy to war for the first time. It had all been sorted out diplomatically in the end, but for a while the Royal Navy had been instructed to allow American merchant ships to tag along in British convoys. 

“So, Algernon Foxcroft went to France,” Jackson said. “Under orders from Jefferson to find out what was going on in Paris.” 

“Even though you didn’t speak French?” 

“Yes,” Jackson agreed. “We were disguised as Germans. There were five of us, but I was in charge. While we were in Paris, we heard that there was something going on in Toulon. Well, _you_ know what happened in Toulon.”

“Bonaparte happened.” 

“By the time we got there, the city was falling. Admiral Hood was evacuating, and taking as many refugees with them as they could carry. That morning, I went up to the front line to have a look at the Republican positions. When I got back to the street where we were lodging…”

Silence. Ramage waited.

“I was just in time to see French gendarmes coming out of the door with my men in shackles.” 

“They were arrested?” Ramage said. “All of them?”

“They missed catching _me_ by sheer luck,” Jackson said. “And I saw them, and they saw me, and I turned around, and walked away." 

“And _that’s_ how the French know about you!” 

“Yes. My own people told them.”

“The French tortured it out of them!” 

“I wasn’t _sure,”_ Jackson said, softly. “I didn’t _know,_ until French naval officers walked into the room tonight, and greeted me by name.” 

“Christ, Jackson!” 

“Now you know what I did. I left my own men behind to be tortured and executed. I turned around as if I didn’t know them, and walked away. I found my way down to the docks, and into one of Sir Sidney Smith's boats.” 

“What could you have done if you had gone back?” Ramage asked. 

“I don’t know,” Jackson said. “Something. _Anything!_ But I didn’t do it. They were my men, and they went to the guillotine, knowing that I escaped, and left them there. I’m a coward, and they knew I was a coward, right at the end where it mattered the most. Do you understand? There’s nothing that I can do, _nothing_ , to get that moment back. Right there, in that moment, when it mattered most, I was a coward.” 

“You could not have saved them if you went back! The only thing you could have done was get yourself killed. You would have ended up on the same guillotine!” 

“But I don’t _know_ that,” Jackson said. “And those few minutes showed me who I really am. And that’s why I can’t go home. I can’t face going home and telling those men’s families that I left their men to die. That’s why I was in the _Sibella_ – why I am still in the _Dido_."

"And here we are." 

“And here we are," Jackson agreed. "I thought about ending my life for a long time. If everyone thinks I died, I may as well die. And instead … somehow… I met you. The _Sibella_ went down, and everything changed.” 

Jackson’s voice fell away to silence. 

There was silence in the boat. He was still there, of course. Ramage could see him, still perched on the weather gunwale. 

“You are not a coward,” Ramage said. “Because if you’re a coward, then so am I, because you did nothing I would not have done in your place. You’re not a coward.”

“But _saying_ so doesn’t change how I feel about it.” 

“No, it doesn’t. But at least you know that I know. I see you, Jackson.”

“I know,” Jackson said. 

Ramage sniffed, and drew in the main sheet again. 

The sail hardened, and the boat heeled, and a moment later the water began to gurgle along the waterline again.  Ramage watched the Pointers, and kept the little boat on the right heading, and they sailed together under the stars.    

They didn't speak.  There was nothing to say.  Ramage found a handkerchief in his pocket.  It was sopping wet, and wiping his nose on it only made his face more wet.  He blew his nose on it, anyway. 

“At least we have someone to see us, as we are," Jackson said, eventually.  "And I’d rather it was you.  You at least understand.”    

"We're a pair of peas in a pod, aren't we?" Ramage said. 

“Born under the same star, Mr Orsini says.  He was quite disappointed that we don't share a birthday.” 

“Gianna has a little saying,” Ramage said.  “No matter what happens during the game, the pawn and the king are packed away in the same box…” 

He heard Jackson make a little sob; just a tiny hiccup. 

“She’s a wise woman.” 

“Yes, she is.” 

After another few minutes of sailing steadily, Jackson spoke up again. 

“Hey, there!”  His tone was very different. 

“What’s up?” 

“I can see a light!”

Ramage couldn’t see it, but the sails were blotting out his view directly ahead of them.  He ducked to see under the boom, but he still saw nothing.  “Where away?” 

“Couple of points off the starboard bow.” 

He knew Jackson’s eyesight.  “Riding lights of a ship?”  he asked.  

“No!” Jackson said.  “It looks like lights on a beach.  Come about to starboard, if you please, sir.” 

Ramage obeyed, and felt the boat respond gently to the tiller.  He adjusted the mainsail. 

“Keep her steady as she goes!”  Jackson said.  “We’re less than a mile off.” 

They sailed steadily on through the darkness, and Ramage felt the chop under the boat changing as the water slowly ran shallow under the keel.  Soon he could see a beach, lit erratically by moving lanternlight, and the figures of people moving on the sand. 

“Can it be?” Jackson asked.  “Is it possible?  No, it can’t be.” 

“I think it is,” Ramage said.  “Ha!  My navigation must be better than I thought!” 

Men were moving around on the beach, holding lanterns.  As they came closer he could pick out uniforms.  At first, they were invisible in the dark, but a moment later someone spotted the incoming sails riding over the breakers. 

“Boat ahoy!” 

Someone was running along the beach, shouting.  Another voice shouted in Portuguese.  Ramage recognised Orsini, running down the beach with a flaming torch held aloft in one hand.  It was gratifying to see the astonishment on the beach.  A few other Royal Navy uniforms were running to meet them. 

“Go on, say it!” Ramage called to Jackson, as the swell took control of the boat. 

He heard Jackson chuckle to himself.  “Getting my old job back?” 

“You know you want to!" 

Jackson chuckled.  He had given the traditional naval hail for his captain for nearly twelve years.  Tonight was the last time he would ever say it, and they both knew it.  Ramage saw him  cup his hands around his mouth. 

_**“DIDO!”**  
_

Ramage grounded the boat on the sand, and cast off the mainsail at the last moment.  The boat’s bow ran up onto the sand with a shudder, and Jackson leaped over the side into the water. 

Orsini ran into the surf to meet them, his torch flickering under his hand.  The boy grabbed the bow with his other hand, and Ramage jumped over the side into thigh-deep water.  His stockings and shoes were soaked again instantly, but he grabbed the  opposite gunwale from Jackson. Overhead the sails flapped.  

“Uncle!” Orsini said, holding the flaming torch aloft and joining him in the water.    “You’re all right?” 

“I’m all right,” Ramage said, and realized with a shock that he couldn’t focus on Orsini’s face.  There were two of Orsini in the brilliant light of the torch.  He was having double vision, but he hadn’t noticed it before because it had been dark. 

“Your head is all bloody,” Orsini said, holding his torch closer to Ramage to see. 

“I’m fine, I got conked over the head,”  Ramage said, fending off the torch. 

Jackson splashed out of the water, holding the bow steady as a breaker tried to drag it away.  “You!  And you!”  he shouted at the other men who were wading out to meet them.  “Help me get this boat up on the beach!”

They heaved the boat up on the sand, keel grating on the sand.  Hill ran down the beach to meet Ramage. 

“We thought we’d lost you, sir!” Hill said.  “Mr Martin saw you being thrown into the bottom of the boat!” 

“Jackson and I are far too old and wily for that,” Ramage said, turning away from the boat.  He walked up onto the dry sand.  “Is everyone all right?  What’s the butcher’s bill?” 

“Four of the Frenchmen are dead.  Three are wounded,” Orsini said.  “All the Portuguese are all right.  Martin fell and sprained his ankle, but he's all right."  

 “And O’Reilly is just holding on,” Hill said. 

"He's _alive?"_

"Just holding on, sir," Hill said.  "The Portuguese fetched a sawbones, and he's trying to keep him together." 

"Don't let him kill himself!" Jackson snapped, sharply.  "Put a sentry on him, immediately, and don't leave him alone for a moment." 

"Yes, s-Jacko," Hill managed not to say 'sir,' but Ramage heard a whisper of ' _Not an officer my bum'_ from someone else. 

He ignored the whisper.   

“We need to get back to the city as soon as possible,”  he said, looking around him at his men, and the Portuguese soldiers.  “The _Diligente_ is still out there somewhere.  And we’re going to stop her before she escapes!” 

 


	25. Bait

Ramage and his party reached Salvador before dawn.  They went straight to the Palace. 

The Prince himself met them in a small candle-lit study, with the Portuguese Admiral,  Governor Da Gama, and to Ramage’s surprise Captain Walker was there too.   The study was soon crowded.  The sweat bloomed on everyone’s faces, and the candle flames were an unwanted extra source of heat.  The mosquitoes swarmed. 

Ramage’s report was heavily edited.  His story was full of holes, and he knew it, but it was difficult telling consistent lies when his eyes still would not focus properly.  He could almost feel Jackson behind him, listening silently. 

When it came to Jackson's part of the story, Jackson began to explain about O’Reilly’s letter, but after just one sentence it was clear that his French was not adequate, and so Orsini translated for him. 

“He told me he was American,” Jackson said.  “I did not know he was French.  He asked me to bring Mr Orsini to see him in a private interview.” 

“Me?” Orsini asked. 

“Yes,” Jackson said.  “I wasn’t going to do it.  I went to tell him to get knotted."

“I won’t forget that,” Orsini said.

“A spy,” the Prince Regent said, when Jackson’s comment was translated for him.  “Hiding in the very bosom of Our Brazilian possessions!”  His drooping face looked genuinely sad. 

“I trust this will not affect Your Highness’s decision to remain here in Salvador,”  Governor da Gama said.  “O’Reilly was a serpent in the garden, but Salvador is still a garden, a lush paradise of hope, and new beginnings for your illustrous and ancient …”

“Thank you, Governor.”  The Prince raised one hand, and Da Gama stopped. 

“We thank you, Captain Ramage and Lord Orsini, for your services to Our estates and safety,” the Prince said.  “Much as the truth pains Us, We thank God for Our deliverance from this evil, and Our Faithful friends for your loyal service.” 

“Sire, it was nothing but our duty,” Ramage said.  

“Your humble words do you credit,” the Prince said.  “Nevertheless, We are grateful.   We will ensure that you receive the rewards due to you, and that your King is made aware of the high esteem in which the House of Braganza holds his servants.” 

“Sire, there is more work to be done,” Captain Walker said.  “This French privateer is still out there.  She’ll be hovering offshore, waiting for her boats to return.  I would like to offer the services of my ship to go and find her.” 

“I can send the _Medusa_ frigate,” the Portuguese Admiral said.  “She’s almost ready for sea.” 

“With respect, Sire,” Walker said.  “The _Bedford_ and _Dido_ are ready for sea _now._   And Captain Ramage knows what the _Diligente_ looks like.  We can search up the coast, and flush her out of hiding.” 

“Captain Walker,” Ramage said.  “If I may be so bold, I have a better idea.” 

“Speak freely,” the Prince said.    

“We don’t need to flush the _Diligente_ out, sir.  We can call her to come to _us.”_  

“Explain?”  the Prince Regent said. 

“If the _Diligente_ couldn’t pick up her boat tonight, I’ll wager she’ll come back for another attempt tomorrow night.  The boat that I captured from them hoisted a blue lantern to their mast.  I believe it to be their signal to rendezvous with the _Diligente._   We can use that signal for our own purposes.”  

Walker let out a crack of laughter.  “Excellent!  We don’t have to chase her if we can persuade her to chase us.  We can lay her a trap with her own boat.” 

“Of course, Captain,” the Prince said.  “Do what may be done.”  He waved his hand. 

“As you command, Sire,” Walker said. 

 “And the spy, Sire?”  the Governor asked.  “There may very well be more French agents here.” 

 “O’Reilly will give them to us,” Dom Rodrigo said.  "We will find out where the _Diligente_ is going next.  Where there is one spy, there are usually others." 

 "Our prisoner will tell us himself," Dom Rodrigo said.  "If he is the first call of the _Diligente,_ he may be the ring-leader."  

“He won’t give that up willingly,” Ramage said, shaking his head.   

 “He does not have to be willing,” Dom Rodrigo said.  “He will tell us whether he wants to or not.  We will ask the questions, and he will give the answers."” 

 “You can’t torture him!” Ramage said, shocked. 

 “Of course we can,” Dom Rodrigo said.  “Everything may be forgiven by God, if it is done in pursuit of protecting God’s order on Earth.  And these Frenchmen have cast off the protection of Mother Church to live in evil.  They have turned their faces from God.” 

 “This is true,” the Prince Regent said, casting his eyes to the crucifix on the wall, and crossing himself with exaggerated precision.  “Do what needs to be done, Dom Rodrigo.” 

 “As you command, Sire.” 

 “Sire!” Ramage protested.  “O’Reilly is my prisoner.  He gave his surrender to me.”

 “Do you deny Me, Captain Ramage?” The Prince stared at Ramage, astonished and irritated.  “You deny Us the prerogative to protect Our realm?” 

 “Sire,” Ramage opened his mouth, but suddenly a hand gripped his arm.  Hard fingers bit into his arm above his elbow.  He turned his head. 

Jackson’s lips were pressed into a thin line, and he shook his head silently.   

 “No, of course Captain Ramage does not,” Orsini interrupted, smoothly. 

 “Count Orsini?” 

“He has taken a blow to his head.  He does not explain himself very well right now.” 

 “Of course!” the Prince said.  “I understand.  I cannot forget that you have been wounded.  You are dismissed, Captain.  Go, with my blessing.  Find a physician who can bind up your wounds." 

"Yes, sire."  The bile rose in Ramage’s throat.  He bowed with a respect he did not feel, and backed out of the room. 

“I’ll signal you when I have received the charts from the _Medusa,"_ Walker said.  "Go and find a doctor, Ramage.  You look like a man half dead.” 

"Aye aye, sir."  He went out through the hall, aware that Jackson was following silently behind him.  

 As soon as he reached the square, and the privacy of the dark, he burst out bitterly. 

 “Yes sir, no sir, two bags full sir!” he burst out, as he walked.  “They have no right to torture O’Reilly!  Spies are executed, but not tortured!  This is 1807, not 1307!  There are rules governing war between Christian countries!” 

 “We are in a foreign court, Captain.”  Jackson sounded tired.  He was keeping pace at Ramage’s side.  “They have different rules here.” 

 “They can’t torture him,” Ramage said.  “He’s my prisoner…” 

 Jackson turned in front of him.  He stopped Ramage with a palm against his shirt.  “Put him from your head.”   

 “It’s sordid.”  

 “War is sordid,” Jackson said.  "Everyone who plays with espionage accepts this risk when he takes up the job.  Everyone, including me.  O'Reilly knew what the risks were when he took up this job.  What happens to him next is not your doing.” 

"We don’t do that,” Ramage said. 

 “Yes, you do.  And you have.  But this is a side of war that you don’t need to know.  Put him from your head.  You can’t help him now.” 

 “So this is your war,” Ramage said, sourly. 

 “Yes,” Jackson said.  The flickering lamps of the palace glittered in his eyes.  “What do you think would have happened to Paolo, if the _Diligente_ had taken him to France?  What do you think would have happened to me, if you had not turned up when you did?  O’Reilly is now where he would have sent _me.”_

Ramage shuddered. They were standing in such intimate proximity that Jackson must have seen it.  

 “This is not your war,” Jackson said again.  “You sail your ship, and kill your King's enemies, and keep your soul clean.  Leave this war to those of us who are already poisoned by it.  You have a privateer to catch. "   

* * *

  
 

The stars gleamed down from a tropical night, over the sea.  The moon had set, into a glittering track of silver leading away toward Brazil.  Ramage stood on the quarterdeck of the _Dido,_ leaning on the rail.  The _Bedford_ was over there to windward, a cable away.  Her sails were a dull bone gleam, just visible in the starlight.    

He’d laid this plan with Captain Walker and the captain of the _Medusa,_ and they’d worked over it again and again, until they had accounted for every eventuality, every accident.  It was a gamble, but it was worth running. 

In daylight, there was little chance of catching the swift _Diligente_ with two huge ships of the line.  They could sweep up and down the coast, but without fantastic luck the schooner would see them coming and be off before they could close with her.  The risk of harm to their men was minimal – but their odds of catching the privateer was minimal, too.  

But Ramage still had the _Diligente’_ s boat, with the blue signal lantern still reeved to the top of the little mast, and he and Walker had come up with a plan.  The risk of harm to their men was higher – but the odds of catching the _Diligente_ was higher, too.  It was a gambler’s plan, but it might work, if Ramage was right about the significance of the blue lantern. 

And if the gamble failed, they still had two ships of the line, and the entire Portuguese fleet to run down the _Diligente._   Robert Kerguelen would not escape a third time. 

“Captain, sir,” a voice interrupted Ramage’s thoughts. 

 “Mr Kenton?”   

“Eight bells, sir,” Kenton said.  “Midnight.  It’s time to go.”

“Very good,” Ramage said.  “Mr Rennick!” 

“We’re ready to embark,” Rennick replied. 

“Very good,” Ramage said.  “Mr Kenton, you have the ship.” 

“Aye aye, sir,” Kenton said.  “Good luck, sir.” 

“Thank you.”  Ramage reached out and shook Kenton’s hand. 

Kenton was not happy when Ramage announced he was leading the raid himself.  It was properly a lieutenant’s job to lead that sort of daring mission, but Ramage had pointed out that he alone had heard the French lieutenant’s voice, and would also recognise Robert Kerguelen. 

“Let’s go,” Ramage said.  “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.  For England, Harry – and Dom João!” 

He heard some of his men laughing. 

The _Diligente_ ’s boat was waiting alongside.  Ramage waited for the boat’s crew to climb down.  The four Frenchmen from LaFayette climbed down into the boat, dressed in French uniforms, and then Ramage followed Mr Hill and Orsini down.  He took his place alongside Auguste in the stern. 

It was a long climb down to the boat in the darkness.  Ordinarily someone on deck would hold out a lantern to light their way down the battens fixed to the ship’s hull, but not this night.  Darkness was their weapon this night.  Ramage felt his way down the battens, and made the crossing to the little boat.  A hand reached out to grip his, and helped him across into the boat.   He made his way to the sternsheets and sat down.    “Cast off,” he ordered. 

“Casting off, aye,” Orsini’s reply came back at a whisper from the tiller.  As a ‘mere’ master’s mate tonight, he had the duty of steering the boat that Stafford would have had.  “Give way all, there!” 

The boat pushed off from the _Dido’_ s huge hull.  Within minutes the warship was swallowed up by the night.  She was there, and then she was gone.  Kenton would stay hove to for another hour, and follow only from a distance.  Tonight’s work would be done by the boats. 

To his eyes, they were alone on the open sea.  Ramage cupped his hands around his mouth.  “Cornwall!”  he called quietly. 

“Kirkaldy!” the whisper came back from the dark.  Followed by others, all around.  “Kircaldy!”  “Kircaldy!”  “Kircaldy!”  “Kircaldy!” 

“Steer north-east by east,” Ramage ordered. 

“North-east by east, aye,” Orsini replied, in the same hoarse whisper. 

The sea rose and fell around them in the dark.  The boat was crowded with men, and seemed even smaller than it had last night.  Ramage had named it the _‘Decoy,’_ to avoid any confusion, and he had put into this boat all the best French-speakers from the _Dido_ and the _Bedford:_   Hill and Orsini and the Four Frenchmen, and some of Walker’s crew.  Twelve altogether, one man for each of the original French crew. 

The other boats, crowded with the Marines from the _Dido_ and the _Bedford,_ were out there, hidden in the darkness.  Those boats were spiky with red coats and bayonets.  Ramage and Walker had stripped the Marines from both the _Dido_ and the _Bedford_ for tonight’s mission.  Over 200 men were following his boat tonight, crammed into every boat he could muster.  The Marines were sitting on the thwarts, knee-to-knee, with the seamen to steer them, and a midshipman to command each boat. 

“The lantern, if you please, Jackson.” 

“Aye aye, sir,” Jackson said.  There was a little creak as Jackson removed the cover from the dark lantern.  Suddenly there was light in the boat, reflecting up into Jackson’s lean face.  The light was blue, gleaming through the coloured glass of the lantern. 

Jackson started drawing in the line hand-over-hand.  The lantern rose to the masthead.    It gleamed over the men’s faces like waxworks, upturned from their oars to look at it.  It flickered over the water around them in a circle. 

Ramage turned around, scanning the darkness, but he could not see the other boats.  His night vision had been wrecked by the lantern.  The other boats could see the _Decoy_ , and that was the important thing.  They had their orders. 

“Right, men, let’s get under sail,” he said.  “We’ve got a privateer to catch.”

Someone in the dark let out a happy little yelp at the idea. 

Setting sail tonight was a whole lot quicker than it had been last night, with so many hands to haul on the lines.  The sails filled and hardened.  The wind blew across Ramage’s cheek; a warm tropical wind, barely enough to make the sea break alongside.  The telltales on the sail fluttered, and the man on the sheet fiddled with it until they stiffened.  The _Decoy_ tipped to leeward as it gathered way. 

Ramage had set out on many night missions, but this was the first time he had ever set out without a destination in mind.  If the _Diligente_ had not been spooked away, she was out here.  She was closing on the coast even now, coming back for her boat.  If the _Diligente_ was here, she would find _them._  

If, if, if…

But Robert Kerguelen was wily.  Ramage had set out on many night missions, but this was the first time he had set out against an opponent he knew so well.  If Kerguelen spotted the other boats against the dark sea; if he had boarding nets out to keep boarders off; if his lookouts saw that the _Decoy_ was filled with strangers.  If the _Diligente_ ’s crew were armed and waiting; if the _Dido_ and _Bedford’_ s boats reached the _Diligente_ ’s side separately and not in one charge. Robert Kerguelen was tough and smart, and he would not let himself be caught easily.    

This was a dreadful plan, Ramage thought, suddenly.  It depended too much on luck.  It depended too much on Kerguelen being half asleep tonight.  Christ, no; this was a stupid plan!  How many of his men had he killed tonight, laying this stupid plan? 

He found his hands clenching into fists.  He must not think those thoughts!  This  always happened to him in the last few hours before battle.  The bustle of laying his plans and giving his orders were behind him.  Now that he had nothing to do but wait, the darkness and the doubts were creeping over him.  No; he could not allow the chill of doubt to sap his energy.  His men would notice their captain’s mood, and they would borrow his doubts, and they would lose the roaring aggression they needed to win. 

Somewhere in the darkness, he heard a soft voice, hissing an order.  The other boats were still here, keeping out of the light, as ordered.  Ramage turned, looking around, but he could not see them.  The presence of this one lantern had wrecked his night vision, but he knew they were there.  The _Dido’s_ boats, and the _Bedford_ ’s, fanned out on either side of the _Decoy_ like a sailing regatta, racing to round an undetermined buoy.

“Sir!”  someone said, and Ramage looked up.

Far away on the distant horizon, a light pricked the darkness.  Even from this distance, he could see it was red.  It seemed to hover in the dark, disembodied, although there must be a ship around it.  A moment later it was gone again, as the swell of the sea took it under the little boat’s shallow horizon. 

“Steer for that light,” Ramage said. 

“Aye aye, sir,” Orsini said. 

“And no more English!” Ramage ordered.  “French only, from here on.”

 _“Ja wohl, kommandant,”_ Jackson whispered. 

He heard someone forward in the boat mutter, _“Comment?”_  

“That’s _officer_ talk, ” Hill snapped in French – his mother tongue.  “So you shut your mouth, Gilbert!” 

Ramage heard Jackson mutter, “Oh, for God’s sake, does everyone know?” 

Cold chills were still running over Ramage’s skin, but he had to maintain his air of confident good cheer.   “ _Désolé_ _, mon ami!_   I regret to inform you _that_ ship has sailed.” 

He heard someone laugh.  He could see their teeth, grinning, in the blue light from above. 

Sailors were like children, Ramage thought.  They had no thought beyond the next watch, the next tack, the next tot.  They had no responsibilities, and no care for the future outside the ship.  They were facing a battle in which some of them would certainly die, but they thought of nothing but the job at hand, and even now they could giggle quietly.  No wonder Jackson had chosen to hide himself among sailors.  For a man with so much darkness in his soul, the sparkling simplicity of sailors had to be like a soothing balm.   

There was nothing to do now but wait.  The light in the distance rose and fell over the horizon.   The _Decoy_ ’s hull went _glong-glonk_ as she thumped heavily over a lump of water, and the sail luffed loudly, and then filled as the man on the main sheet adjusted it.  In the blue light, he could see the men on the thwarts swaying from side to side in unison with the boat’s motion, but nobody spoke. 

The distant light was steady now.  It had come close enough that it didn’t disappear when the _Decoy_ dropped into every trough.  It was still a disembodied dot of red, but that dot was coming for them.  The other boats must have seen it too; they had to take care not to steer too close to the _Decoy_. 

“She’s taken the bait,” Ramage said, with satisfaction.  “The night glass, Mr Orsini.” 

“Here, _monsieur!”_  

Orsini reached into the locker under the stern, and brought out Southwick’s night glass.  Ramage stood up in the boat, balancing precariously against the sharp movement on the boat.   He levelled the heavy glass. 

He found the prick of light.  Yes, the light was glowing against the roach of a sail.  It  looked upside down, as everything did through the night glass.  But that ship was coming for them. 

“She’s running down to us,” Ramage said.  He slid the night glass closed, and sat down on the thwart. 

“Keep her steady as she goes,” he said.  “Let them come to us.  We don’t want to start the party early.” 

He turned in his seat.  Nothing was visible outside the glow of their own lantern.  “Cornwall!” he called. 

A distant voice came back.  “Kircaldy!”  And then others.  The number two boat reported, and the number three, and then all of them, one after the other.  The whole convoy of boats was astern in the darkness; two hundred Marines, and nearly as many seamen.  They were drawn to the blue light above Ramage’s head, just as the _Diligente_ herself was.  The _Decoy_ was drawing both sides of the trap to close around her. 

In a few minutes, he took another look through the night glass.  The red light was spilling over a huge foresail.  He could see a stern lantern too, now, spilling light over a narrow stern. 

“That’s the _Diligente,”_ Ramage said.  He lowered the telescope.  “Steady as she goes.”

“Steady as she goes, sir.”    

The boat was pitching sharply.  Orsini hissed a few orders, trimming the sails so that the _Decoy_ was steering for the _Diligente._   The sea was getting up; whitecaps breaking and hissing away in the darkness.  The loaded boat was heaving herself up and through them, bow banging as it thumped down into the troughs. 

The _Diligente_ was steering straight for them.  She looked huge and lethal from the tiny boat; real and solid, as if a ghost had become manifest in front of them.  The lights on her deck were picking out her rigging. 

And suddenly, she turned, turning into the wind to heave to.  Even from the level of the sea, Ramage could see the confident way her sails were handled.  She turned into the wind, and hovered there, and her foresail was backed smartly.  A moment later she was hove to, waiting for the boat.  Stopped; right where Ramage wanted her. 

“Spill the wind,” Ramage ordered.  “Lubberly as you can.  We don’t want to get there too soon.”   He was very aware of the invisible boats, steering around them in a pincer movement.  They had cracked on all sail, and they were racing to circle around the stopped Diligente.  He couldn’t see them, but he could _feel_ them – feel the tautness of the sails, the steep leeward tilt, the water sluicing along the sides. 

 _“Oui, mon capitaine,”_ Orsini agreed.  “Gilbert, let out the sheets!  Let the telltales flutter – there.  Just so.  We will play our part _adagio.”_

“Steady as she goes,” Ramage said. 

Any minute now, and they would be close enough that the lookouts in the _Diligente_ could make out details in the boat _._  

 _“Ohé!”_ a faint voice from the _Diligente_ cried out across the water. 

“Jackson!”  Ramage whispered. 

“My _pleasure,_ captain,” Jackson purred.  A tug on the halyard, and the light fell straight down.  It dropped over the side.  Darkness fell instantly. 

That had been Ramage’s puzzle; how to distract the French long enough for the other boats to come up on the _Diligente_ ’s other side, unnoticed.  The other boats needed time to catch up with the _Decoy_.  They needed time to circle around the _Diligente_ in the dark; time to hook onto her; time to climb up the sides. 

 _Time;_ enough time for the French to notice the strangers in the boat.  They needed time – and so Ramage would have to _make_ time.  He had to keep the attention of the _Diligente_ focused on the _Decoy_ long enough for the Marines to come up on the other side.  In any attack, the advantage was with the defenders.  Ramage had to do something that would hold the _Diligente_ ’s attention over the side, and in the water, and allow the British the element of surprise. 

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” Auguste bellowed.  “What did you do that for, you cretin!” 

Lieutenant Charles had come from Normandy, and he had the accent of his birthplace.  Ramage and Jackson had coached Auguste in Charles’s manner of speaking, until the seaman could produce a fair mimic of the lieutenant’s irascible voice. 

Auguste had been a fisherman, and a Royalist, before joining the Royal Navy.  He  had a fisherman’s voice, and a fisherman’s vocabulary.  He could swear like an angry Norman far more convincingly than Hill or Ramage ever could.  Auguste sounded as if he was about to explode. 

 _“Ohé!”_ the voice from the _Diligente_ bellowed.  “Monsieur Charles!  Light that lantern!” 

“It’s gone over the side!” Auguste shouted. 

“Charles, come alongside!” 

“I have lost my light!” Auguste shouted back, and shouted at Lieutenant Hill.   “You!  Sheet that home!  You – what are you doing with the tiller?  Stop jerking on it, it’s not your cock!  Get us under way this instant!  Move!” 

“Come alongside!”  the _Diligente_ bellowed. 

“I can’t see!”  Auguste shouted. 

The _Decoy_ could not go alongside.  The _Decoy_ had to be occupied with a small personnel problem.  “Continue!” Ramage hissed to Auguste. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, man!”  Auguste roared.  “ _Now_ what the fuck are you doing?  What are you, stupid?” 

“Don’t blame me!  I didn’t do it!” Hill shouted back.

“Yes, you did!” 

“No, I didn’t.  _He_ did!” 

“What?” Ramage heard Gibert shout back.  _“Me?_   I did what _you_ told me to do!”

“Why the fuck didn’t you cleat it in?” Auguste shouted.  “Huh?   Huh?  Do I have to do all the thinking around here?  What kind of fucking moron are you?  Moron!  Idiot!  Cretin!  How are you not drooling on yourself?  How are you not pissing in my boat?  You don’t _belong_ in this ship!  _You_ belong in the Salpêtrière!  Both of you!  With the other cretins!  Being looked at by Dr Pinel!  No!  Even _Pinel_ couldn’t find _your_ tiny brain!” 

Ramage giggled.  His stomach felt as if it was in his throat, but the giggle bubbled up unbidden.   

“You can’t talk to me like that!”  Hill shrieked.  “I’ll tell the captain what you did!” 

“You’re damn right you’ll tell the captain!”  Auguste blared.  “I’ll have you up on a charge!  All this mess is because you didn’t cleat that in properly!  Mother of God!  I will have you up on a charge and guillotined!  Such incompetence is treasonous! Treason, I tell you!” 

 “Monsieur Charles!”  another voice shouted from the _Diligente_. 

This man had no need to bellow to get his words across.  All the other shouting cut out instantly as soon as he spoke.  It was Robert Kerguelen himself, on his own quarterdeck.  The hairs rose on the back of Ramage’s neck. 

“What is going on down there?” Kerguelen barked, his voice clipped. 

“These men!” Auguste shouted.  “These men are impossible!  They make the Emperor’s service into a joke!  They would rather argue than do their duty!” 

“Monsieur Charles!”  Kerguelen barked.  “That’s enough!  Get back in the ship, and _then_ debrief!” 

“There is nothing to debrief, _mon capitaine!”_   Auguste shouted.  “This _cochon_ lost our passenger over the side!  He’s dead!” 

“Dead?” 

“He’s dead, I tell you!”  Auguste shouted.  “We came all the way out here for nothing!  Because these idiots don’t know how to sail a boat without putting us into a death-roll! 

“He drowned?” 

“No!” Auguste shouted.  “He was bitten by a shark!  A white-tip!  It took off his leg!  He’s dead!”

“He’s lying, _capitaine!”_ Hill screamed.  “Perfidy and lies!” 

“I’ll see you on the guillotine for this, you pig!” Auguste shouted. 

“ _“Ohé!_ That boat!  Put your light on so I can see your faces!” Kerguelen barked.  Ramage could see the men up there, moving along the rail.  Their heads were silhouetted by the _Diligente_ ’s red light.  Kerguelen was starting to get suspicious.  He  must be able to see the _Decoy,_ but only as an anonymous boat in the gloom. 

“I can’t do that, _capitaine!”_   Auguste shouted.  

 “Who _are_ you?”  Kerguelen shouted.  “Identify yourselves, or we will fire upon you!” 

“I am Charles!”  Auguste shouted.  “You know me!” 

Kerguelen must have come to a decision.  Ramage clearly heard him barking to someone in the _Diligente._    

 _“That’s_ not our boat.  Cast off the starboard guns.” 

There was a sudden shrill whistle.  The _Diligente_ was clearing for action; the watch below was being summoned.  In just a moment, every man in the ship would be armed and ready to repel boarders. 

He needed more _time!_   He stood up abruptly in the boat. 

“Captain Kerguelen!” he shouted across the water, cupping his hands around his mouth to direct his voice.  

There was a sudden silence from the deck of the _Diligente._  

“Who’s that?” Kerguelen asked. 

“I have a message from Antoinette!”  Ramage shouted. 

“What?” Kerguelen barked.  “Monsieur Charles, is this a joke?” 

“Antoinette says the children miss you!  Jean-Claude is nearly six now!  He misses his papa!” 

“Who the hell are you?” Kerguelen shouted. 

“Do you not recognise my voice, my old friend?  It is I!” Ramage shouted.  “It is I, Nicholas Ramage!”

“Oh, _shit!”_ Kerguelen bellowed – in _English,_ his mother tongue. 

His head disappeared from the rail.  “Sink that boat!” he shouted to his men.  _“Sink_ that boat, _now!”_   – but Kerguelen was too late. 

Right on the heels of his words, there was a roar of sound.  It sounded like thunder rolling, but it was men’s voices, shouting, all as one.  The shout was muffled by the hull of the _Diligente,_ but it was rising, as the men raced up and over the _Diligente_ ’s bulwarks.  Muskets began to spit.

“The boarders!”  Jackson shouted. 

“Can we join them, _capitaine?”_   Orsini asked.

“Don’t be impatient, it’s not a party!” Ramage snapped, and felt another giggle bubble up inside.  “Put us alongside her main chains!”

“Aye aye, sir!” 

Orsini drew the tiller toward him, levelling the bow on the lights.  Unbidden, the men at the sheets tightened them, hardening the sails, increasing the power of the wind.  The boat heeled sharply.  The gurgle of water along the waterline grew into a rushing hiss.  Ramage found himself gripping the side as the weather gunwale was hoisted higher from the water.   He put a hand to his belt, making sure that his pistols and his sword were there. 

One more glance at the _Diligente_ ’s hull.  The _Decoy_ was racing to meet her fate.  The _Diligente_ was growing more solid in the dark, a black wall above them.  The lights on deck were hidden now by their low perspective.  Orsini yanked on the tiller, whirling the boat parallel to the wall of the ship’s hull.  “Now!  Grappling hooks, away!” 

The irons swung and flew and hooked in the chains.  The _Decoy_ slewed wildly, crunching against the hull, staggering them all. 

“Didos!”  Ramage shouted.  “On me!” 

He grabbed for the schooner’s chains.  He was surprised how low they were, compared to the giant Dido.  A hand on the iron tarred rope of the chains, an elbow over the plank, and he was scrambling up.  He stood up on the chains. 

His head broke over the rail into light and noise.  He could see the foredeck, filled with struggling men.  The French had their backs to him, fighting off the onrushing British who were streaming in over the other rail.  Ramage scrambled around the shrouds and their heavy blocks, and thrust his leg over the rail.  He drew his pistols as he jumped down to the deck. 

 _“Dido!”_ he roared as soon as he landed.  _“Dido!  Dido!”_   His bellow was taken up by the men behind him. 

The closest French turned to face the new attack.  A master’s mate led the rush to face them.  Ramage fired the first pistol at the master’s mate, and threw the empty weapon aside.  He levelled the left-hand pistol, missed his mark but hit the man behind him, who was screaming with his cutlass raised over Gilbert’s head.  A second later the rush of Frenchmen crashed into Ramage’s small war party. 

The French had boarding pikes, but no room to use them, and more Marines were pouring over the rail every second.  The deck was a tight packed dense mass of stabbing blades and shadows.  The noise was constant; the clanging of blades and screaming.  No time for anything but fighting and screaming.  _“Dido!  Dido!  Dido!”_   Ramage pushed and shoved and stabbed, fighting on instinct, shoving chest to chest with all the rest.  He had no space for swinging the sword, just stabbing wildly with it with all his weight behind, and ramming his way forward.  He could hear screams of Italian from his side – Orsini and Rossi fighting in tandem. 

A pistol fired at his head, the smoke dashing into his face, but the shot flew wide.  He sliced with the sword at the man’s belly, and ducked a cutlass as it lashed for his head.  The force of his parry slammed at his wrist.  He heaved the man back with his left hand, came back and sent the sword under for the man’s stomach.  There wasn’t time for fencing now.  He was fighting on reflexes and rage, shouting _“Dido!  Dido!”_ over and over.  Around him blades flickered in the yellow light, lashing drops of blood as they bit into bone.  _“Dido!  Dido!”_

And then there were other men shouting _“_ _Bedford_ _!_ _Bedford_ _!”_   There were too many red coats here, looking wildly around for more men to fight, which meant that the French had been cleared from the ship’s waist. 

He took a moment to collect himself and look around, aware that Jackson and Gilbert  were closing up on him protectively.  They had the waist, but wouldn’t have the ship until they had all the upper deck.  The Diligentes were taken by surprise, but they’d got over their shock very fast, and they were fighting for their ship with the fury of desperation.  They were rallying on the quarterdeck.  Boarding pikes flashed.  Even as he looked, he saw two Marines jump off the taffrail to escape from the French pikes. 

“Didos!  Bedfords!” he shouted, and pointed high with his sword.  “On me!  On me!”  He ran aft, and a rush of men ran with him.  

 Screams, blood, screams.  The weight of Ramage’s men, arriving in a rush, slammed into the French.  For a moment there was a mad melee of shoving and screaming.  Cutlasses clashed wildly.  Ramage ducked a blade, parried, slammed his sword into a man’s stomach.  The man fell, and an axe slammed down to finish him off, and Ramage jumped over him.  Slash – parry – scream – men pushing behind him, all screaming.   “Dido!  Dido!  Dido!” 

A clear space opened on the deck in front of him, skeined with smoke and scattered with fallen bodies.  The pressure behind him sent him staggering forward to meet the Frenchman rushing to meet him behind a boarding pike.  The pike’s head scooped toward his face, and Ramage ducked aside.  He tried to lunge under the shaft with the point of his sword, but the man’s reach was too long, and the sword’s point simply swatted the air along it. 

The pike man’s eyes were blue, and he stared wildly at Ramage over the long handle, and yanked the pike’s head laterally to slice the leaf-shaped blade into Ramage’s throat. Ramage grabbed the shaft with his left hand, trying to shove it away from him, but he was caught up in the men behind him.  He could neither parry nor duck, only grip onto the pike’s neck for dear life.  The man on the other end of the pike was strong, and he yanked the pike back from Ramage’s grip and smashed it toward his face.  The razor point was coming for his eyes, and he yanked himself back from it.  He stepped back, caught his foot on something solid and fell, and the pike was coming down after him, ready to impale him like a bug to the deck like a bug.

 _“Dido!”_   someone screamed, and the pike fell – not into Ramage’s belly but on top of him.  The shaft clattered on his chest.  He grabbed the blade and pushed it away before it could fall across his face, and then pike’s owner crashed on top of him, crushing the breath out of him.  He was on his back on the deck, pinned under a corpse.  Hot blood gouted across his legs. 

He rolled the dead man off his chest and tried to get up, but someone fell over him and rammed him down again, standing on his chest, then his hand. 

“Get off!” Ramage roared, hitting at the black boot crushing his hand.  “Get off!” 

The Marine reached down, and grabbed him by the front of his uniform.  “Captain?” the man screamed down into his face.  Ramage grabbed the man back, and the redcoat hauled him to his feet so hard that he almost butted Ramage in the face.  “She’s ours!  She’s ours!”  the Marine screamed, punching Ramage on the shoulders with both fists and jumping up and down.  “She’s ours!” 

Ramage turned around.  All around him, he could see only other British.  Jackson was pushing his way through the crowd to him, concern on his face, and Ramage shook his head at him.  Ramage’s sword was gone.  He was shaking with rage and terror and bloodlust, and pain in his crushed fingers.  He took a gulping breath, trying to settle his nerves and take command again, but he was panting too hard. 

“Sir!  Sir!”  A hand grabbed his shoulder.  It was Captain Rennick, wild-eyed, his white crossbelts blotted as red as his coat.  “She’s ours, sir!” 

Ramage looked around.  The Tricolour was gone from the jack.  Even as he looked, the French at the wheel threw down their arms and lifted their hands.  He thrust himself past Jackson and Rennick, clambering over the heaped bodies of dead and wounded alike.  The deck was slippery with blood. 

“Surrender!” he shouted at the men at the taffrail.  They were pinned against the high arched wall of the taffrail.  They were holding the British at bay with boarding pikes, but they had nowhere to go.  “Throw down your arms!” he shouted. 

They looked at each other.  One of the pikes went down, and that was the sign for all of them.  Blades clattered to the deck.   They raised their hands.  One of them was weeping, great gulping sobs of rage.  _“Je ne rends,”_ the one who had lowered his pike first muttered. 

“I am Captain Ramage,” Ramage said.  “You are prisoners of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Dido.  Where is your captain?” 

A Gallic shrug.  “Find him yourself.”   

Ramage couldn’t blame him for his rage.  He turned away. 

He could hear a fight still going, and it seemed to take him a stupidly long time to realize that someone was still fighting it out on the lower deck, under his feet.  A moment later, there was a bellow, and a rush of Marines stormed up the main hatch at bayonet point, led by Martin.  They staggered to a stop,  as they found no enemies to bayonet.   

“How did _you_ get down _there?”_ Ramage shouted, and his voice cracked into a hoarse scream. 

“We bashed our way in through the stern lights, sir!” Martin shouted back, and tried to salute with his sword in his hand, so that the Marine behind him jerked.  “The last of them have run down to the orlop deck, sir!” 

“Very good!”  Ramage turned around.  He cast his eyes aloft, and was mildly surprised to see that the _Diligente_ was still hove to.  Aloft, everything was the same, as if the ship had not abruptly changed owners between one sail maneouvre and the next.   She could stay hove to, he decided, until the _Dido_ and _Bedford_ caught up with her.   

“Mr Hill!” 

“Yo!”  Hill shouted. 

 _Yo?_   But now was not the time. 

“Go below to the orlop deck!  Tell the men down there to surrender!  You, Mr – um – you from the _Bedford_ _!”_

The _Bedford_ ’s lieutenant saluted.  “Sir?” 

“Have someone send up the signal rocket for the _Dido_ and the _Bedford._   Mr Singer, take a turn around the deck and make sure the boats are still down there!  We’ll have the prisoners collected on the fo’c’sle!  Collect their weapons, make sure they’re disarmed.  Orsini, take a party of men, and sweep the gundecks, flush out anyone hiding down there!”

“Aye aye, sir!” 

His orders sent men scurrying about.  The fight was over, but the work was not yet done.  His men had precarious control; he hadn’t expected so many Frenchmen.  A sudden rush from below, coordinated by desperate men, could re-take the _Diligente_. 

“And someone find the captain!”  He repeated the order in French.  “Find the captain!” 

“Here, _monsieur!”_   someone shouted from the starboard rail.  _“Monsieur_ , here!” 

Ramage ran across the deck.  Jackson and Martin were close behind him.  There was a knot of Frenchmen whose fight had ended already.  Their backs were to Ramage; oblivious to the surrender of their shipmates.  Ramage pushed his way through them, and felt no resistance. 

Robert Kerguelen was lying on his back against the ship’s side.  His head was pillowed on the knees of a French sailor.  Another one was pressing a roll of bandage to his stomach.  A man in a boatswain’s uniform was kneeling at his side, holding his captain’s hand. 

For a moment, Ramage was struck by Kerguelen’s resemblance to the engravings of the death of Nelson.  Kerguelen’s hair was dark with sweat.  His skin was pale as wax, as if all the blood had seeped out already.  His eyes were wide in the lantern light. 

“Robert!”  He went to Kerguelen, and dropped to his knees next to the bosun. 

Kerguelen’s eyes rolled down to look at him.  “Nicholas.”  He managed to twitch a smile, between gasps of pain.  “You have killed me.” 

“I have an excellent surgeon in the Dido,” Ramage promised.  “He’ll get you on your feet.” 

“Not this time, Nicholas,” Kerguelen said.  “I am bleeding too fast.  You’re killed me, my friend.” 

Ramage glanced up.  The man pressing the bandage to Kerguelen’s side met his eyes, and shook his head, confirming his captain’s words.  There were tears in the matelot’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Ramage said.  “Robert, I’m sorry.” 

“Nicholas!” Kerguelen transferred his grip to Ramage, clutching at Ramage’s hand.  Ramage gripped his hand between both of his.  “Will you look after them?” 

He meant his crew.  “I’ll take care of them,” Ramage said.  He gripped Kerguelen’s hand, tightly, as if he could hold Kerguelen in this world by sheer will. 

“In my cabin,” Kerguelen gasped.  “There is a letter for Antoinette…”

“I will see to it that she gets it,” Ramage promised.  

Another Frenchman brought more bandages, and the two sailors shoved them against Kerguelen’s side.  The bleeding might be inside, but the human instinct to do something was too strong.  There were other men around them, English and French, crowding at Ramage’s back, pressing down on their dying captain. 

“Tell my brother…”  Kerguelen gasped. 

“Yes?”

“Tell him I forgive you!”  His eyes were closing.  He was fading fast.  “Tell Jean I forgive you!”

“I’ll tell him,” Ramage said.  “When the war is over, I will go to your family myself.  And that your family knows that died as a hero.” 

“Look after my men!” 

“I will, my friend.”  

“I wish for nothing more,” Kerguelen said.  His chest was lifting in short gasps, and suddenly, he had no breath for speech any more.  He grabbed at Ramage’s hand, fingers clutching, suddenly very frightened.  “Nicholas!” 

“Robert!”  Ramage leaned across, and thrust his own hand between the French sailors.  He dug into Kerguelen’s hot blood with his bare fingers, pressing the bandages against his wound.  “Robert!  Stay with us, Robert!  The surgeon is coming!” 

“Nicholas!”  Kerguelen’s eyes were open, and frightened.  “Nicholas!” 

“It’s all right!” Ramage said.  “Robert!  Robert!  Stay with us!  Robert!” 

But it was too late.  It was _all_ too late.  A few more gasps only, a last wild roll of his eyes, and Kerguelen had slipped away into unconsciousness.  His clutching fingers went limp. 

Ramage transferred his bloody fingers to Kerguelen’s wrist, and felt the faint, frantic tapping of his pulse fade out, and stop. 

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

 

The crowds in the Municipal Court were watching, and waiting.  The heat was stifling.  

Ramage glanced around at his own officers, arrayed behind him.  Hill was on a crutch; left ankle still wrapped up tightly.  One of Ramage’s Marines had his arm in a sling.   Orsini was here too; standing with the British this time.  Dom Rodrigo was nowhere to be seen.  To his right, Captain Walker stood with his own officers.  All around them were Portuguese courtiers, all waiting around the edges of the court; all glancing toward the closed doors. 

There was a sudden disturbance behind him.  Ramage turned, as someone began edging sideways through the crowd.  It was Loach. 

“Joe,” Hill hissed.  “I thought you were staying in the ship!” 

“Changed me mind,” Loach whispered.  His deep voice reverberated, even at a whisper.  

“Come and stand _this_ side of us.”  Hill whispered, inviting Loach to take the place  next to him.  That place would have allowed Loach to turn the undamaged half of his face toward the room full of strangers. 

“Not on your life, George,” Loach rumbled.  He slid in alongside Martin, right at the outskirt of the Dido’s little group.  “I’d rather turn me good ear to the people I _want_ to hear.” 

Hill looked momentarily flustered – and then clearly touched.  “As you wish, Joe.” 

Ramage turned his head to glance over his shoulder.  He met Loach’s eyes.  Loach nodded, very slightly.  Ramage nodded back, and then faced forward again.  Joe Loach was going to be all right, he thought, satisfied. 

At the closed doors, a Portuguese major domo made a ringing announcement, and banged a mace on the floorboards.  The doors swung open.  A second later, the Prince Regent Dom Joao walked ponderously into the room. 

Ramage sank down in a deep bow, along with everyone else.  Men bowed; ladies curtseyed.  Fabric hissed and rustled as the whole hall sank in obeisance before the passage of the ruler of the Portuguese Empire.  Ramage heard footsteps pass close by, on their way to the dais at the head of the hall.  He rose again along with the rustle of silk.   

The Prince Regent ascended the dais.  He moved to the chair that had been placed on the dais, and sat down.  Another bow from the assembled hall, and Ramage bowed with them.  

Dom Joao gazed out over the assembled dignitaries in the Municipal Court.  

A table was being carried by servants, and set down in front of the Prince.  In front of the table hung a large flag.  It was the Portuguese Royal Standard.  It was tattered and frayed, and Ramage knew iot was the same one that had flown from the masthead of the Principe Real for fifty-four days.  A servant brought a writing tray; another brought out a long document. 

Governor Da Gama picked it up.  He braced himself with his back straight and the page outstretched between both hands.  It was a _Carta Régia_ – a royal decree. 

“All and every kind of commodities, wares and merchandise,” the Governor read in ringing terms, “transported either in foreign vessels belonging to the powers that remain at peace with my royal crown or in ships belonging to my vassals are to be admitted by the customs of Brazil…

Not  only my vassals, but also the aforesaid foreigners may export to these ports, whenever it seems to them to be of benefit to trade and agriculture, which I so much wish to promote, all and every kind of commodities and colonial products, apart from Brazil-wood and other manifestly monopolised commodities …”

It wasn’t a long document.  It didn’t have to be.  The path to that piece of paper had taken months of secret talks, dozens of warships, thousands of sailors, and a voyage of five thousand miles. 

In the silence, the Governor returned the _Carta Régia_ to the table in front of the Prince Regent. 

Dom Joao picked up the pen which had been laid ready at his right hand.  The feather was a magnificent curl of the purest white.  He dipped the pen into his inkwell.  In breathless silence, the Prince signed his name on the bottom of the _Carta Régia._   The scratching of his nib was the only sound. 

As he put the pen aside, the whole Municipal Court seemed to exhale as one. 

The isolation of Brazil was at an end, for all time. 

* * *

Ramage went outside with Walker.  He looked down the steps, and quailed silently at the thought of trying to keep pace with Walker down that shimmering mirage.  He stopped short in the shade of the portico, and miraculously Walker stopped at his side.

“Open to trade to all friendly powers!” Walker marvelled. 

“Which means us, more or less,” Ramage said. 

“Aye,” Walker said.  “We’ve no need to tolerate the Americans and their insolence!  We can get what we need from Brazil!  Cotton – tobacco – timber – even rum, laddie, even rum!  Take _that,_ Thomas Jefferson!”  and Walker snapped his fingers gleefully. 

“Quite so, sir,” Ramage said.  He was not as thrilled by the prospect as Walker was.  “So the Prince Regent is definitely going to Rio de Janeiro.” 

“They’ve been trying to talk him into staying all week  but his mind is made up.  Salvador is a pretty town, but Rio is where the real money is.  And Salvador is not fortified.  Your friend Kerguelen proved that to them.  If one Frenchman can land here, a thousand Frenchmen can land here." 

Last night, one Frenchman had landed here for good, Ramage thought.  He and Sidney Yorke had attended Robert Kerguelen’s funeral this  morning.  Kerguelen’s coffin had been carried to his grave by the surviving officers of the _Diligente,_ with a Tricolour as his pall, and the _Dido’_ s Marines had fired a salute over his grave. 

Robert Kerguelen would never go home to St Malo.  Instead, he would sleep with his enemies in a sunny Brazilian graveyard, because Nicholas Ramage had killed him.  One day, Ramage wondered, would some future wanderer come across the strange grave with the French inscription and wonder how a French naval officer got to be here?  So far from home...

“Did ye see that brig-‘o-war that came in this morning?”

“We saw her," Ramage said.  

“She brought despatches from Captain Moore.  He’s in Rio now, with the _London.”_

“Orders?” Ramage asked. 

“He desires one of us to sail with the Prince to Rio, when he goes there.  And the other, he wants to send home with the news.  He leaves it up to us to send whichever of us is convenient.  I would send the _Diligente,_ but the Portuguese Admiral still wants to keep her.” 

“One of us will stay here,” Ramage said.  He could sense what Walker was getting at. 

“The other can go home,” Walker said.  “So, what do you say, Ramage?  Would ye stay, or go?”

 _“You_ stay,” Ramage said, immediately.  “I _know_ you want to stay.” 

“You answered that too quickly, man!” Walker said.  “We can toss a coin on it, if you prefer.” 

 “No, no, sir, please put that coin back in your pocket,” Ramage waved Walker down.  "I know you want to stay."  

“I don’t want it said that I pushed a junior officer out of my way, so I could stay where the honours were.” 

“Nothing of the sort, sir!”  Ramage shook his head.  “My motive is purely selfish!  You’ve seen us pumping out the _Dido_ every day?  She's leaking.  She needs docking, and the Brazilian yards just don't have space for her.   My crew is tired.  And _I’m_ tired.  I _want_ to go home, sir.  I've been at sea nearly continuously for two years.”

“Ah – ha!”  Walker’s eyes lit up with a smile of understanding and affection. 

“It’s no hardship to be sent where I already want to go.  And the Prince likes you, sir.   I don’t know much about diplomacy, but I know that’s worth your staying here.  It will make the Ambassador’s job easier, when he gets here.”

“Verrae well,” Walker said.  “I’ll write your orders, and I’ll give you my despatches as well.” 

“I may see you again outside Lisbon again in a few months’ time, anyway,” Ramage said. 

“Aye, and you can be sure that I’ll have a snifter of good whisky and a ceilidh waiting for you,” Walker promised. 

“I’ll look forward to it, sir.” 

Walker’s gaze shifted.  “Your secretary is waiting for you,” he observed. 

Ramage turned around.  There was a man standing at the bottom of the steps.  Ramage recognised Jackson by his coat and the inevitable straw hat, although Jackson’s face was a blur. 

“Very mysterious man,” Walker said, thoughtfully.  "American, isn't he?"   

“Yes,” Ramage agreed.  “He is.  But I trust him with anything.  He’s saved my life a few times.  And I’ve saved his.  He’s a good friend.”

“Aye, it’s always better to sail with men you trust,” Walker said.  “Will you excuse me, Ramage?  I have to go and see a man.” 

“Of course, sir,” Ramage bowed, and set off toward Jackson.

 The steps were still dancing in his vision, but at least they were regular, and he could pace down them like a horse over trotting poles.  He put his feet down carefully, reached the ground safely, and set off toward Jackson. 

 _“Capitano,”_ Jackson greeted him, touching the brim of his hat. 

 _“Signor_ Jackson,” Ramage said.

“How is your eyesight?”  Jackson asked, reverting to English.  Ramage winced.  “It’s getting better.” 

“You’re not a good liar, you know,” Jackson said.  “If it doesn’t improve, you’ll have to tell the surgeon anyway.”

Jackson had been shocked when Ramage confessed that he could not read his own handwriting and needed to record his after-action reports by dictation.  Jackson had wanted him to inform the surgeon immediately. 

“It will get better on its own,” Ramage said.  “How many times have I been conked over the head?  Half-a-dozen times?  It always gets better, doesn't it?  Will you walk with me down to the ship?”

“Gladly, Captain.”    

They fell into step alongside each other, down the narrow cobbled alleyways of Salvador. 

“What are you going to do now?” Jackson asked, as they walked. 

Ramage had not brought up the revelations in the boat since they had landed on the beach, but now he spoke.  Speaking about it last night had helped clarify it in his mind.  Even if he didn’t want to believe it, he had to act.  You couldn’t ignore rocks ahead of your bows, even if you didn’t want to believe they were there.  

“I am going to speak to my father, and ask him to break the entail on the estate.” 

Jackson looked at Ramage sharply.  “Can you do that?  I thought entails were set in stone.” 

Ramage kept his eyes on the cobbles, walking carefully.   “They can be broken, if the owner and the legitimate heir both agree.  We would have to go to the courts together.  If I want to do it, I must do it now.  That way Paolo can inherit St Kew.  I will be the last Earl of Blazey.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jackson said. 

Ramage sighed, shaking his head down at the ground.  “So am I.  But you’re right.  I may be broken, but I am _not_ defeated.  I’ll _find_ a way around this.”

“I know you will,” Jackson said.  “You always do.” 

They walked on.  They reached a low wall, looking out over the shimmering blue sea.  On one side, the mule-drawn elevator creaked noisily, pulling someone up from the lower city.  The sea was a shimmering blur to Ramage.  He knew where the Dido was, but he couldn’t see her. 

 “Actually,” Jackson said.  “I meant to ask what you were going to do about what I told _you.”_       

“Do?” Ramage said. 

"About Algernon Foxcroft." 

"Nothing,” Ramage said.  “Your war is over.  I always knew you fought against Britain.  Now I know how.  And our countries are not at war.”

“For now,” Jackson said. 

“Agernon Foxcroft is dead.  He died in Toulon.  Leave him there.” 

“It’s not going to be that simple,” Jackson said. 

“Yes, it is,” Ramage said.  “I always knew you fought against Britain.  Now I know _how,_ that’s all.  It’s history.” 

Jackson was shaking his head.   “The French know that I’m alive and well, and they think that I’m on active service again.  They’ll be looking for me.”

“Why?”  Ramage asked.   

“Because of you,” Jackson said.

“Me?”

“Where you go, I go,” Jackson said.  “And the French _know_ that.  You, popping up in Pitigliano, and Boulogne.  You, stealing whole convoys – intercepting signals – landing guns on Diamond Rock – capturing Curacao with just a frigate.  They don’t think you’re doing it all alone.  They think Algernon Foxcroft is working with _you._ I think that’s why Bonaparte put that reward on your head.  It’s not just you he wants dead.  It’s me, and Paolo Orsini too.” 

Ramage sighed.  “Well, it can’t be helped, all the way out here in Brazil.” 

Jackson looked at Ramage’s face.  Ramage was gazing at the sea below, serenely.  His tranquil confidence was quite reassuring, Jackson realized. 

Perhaps that _was_ the way to live, Jackson thought.  Ramage took on each day as it came, and everything in his past  was swept away in his wake, forgotten.  He had learned Jackson’s deepest, darkest secret, and simply accepted it as it was.  And somehow, simply hearing it _accepted_ so calmly made it feel lighter, as if his life _could_ be borne after all.   

“It’s funny how it’s all panned out,” Jackson sighed.  “All my secrets came out at once.  Everything I tried to squash has come out.  I can’t go back to being just your coxswain now, can I?  Even if I still wanted to."

"Blame Stafford," Ramage said. "The Round Robin was his idea.  You stopped being coxswain the minute he sat down to write it.” 

Jackson shook his head, refusing to rise to the joke.

“I thought I buried Algernon Foxcroft in Toulon, but I was wrong. He's back.” 

“Algernon Foxcroft is dead,” Ramage insisted.  “He died in Toulon.  _This_ man is Thomas Jackson.  And I’m glad to know who you really are.  No matter what happens, I'm _glad_ that now I know."

They stood for a long time, looking out at the ships. 

* * *

* * *

 

Orsini went down the ladder to the Dido’s wardroom, and put his hat under his arm.  He knocked on the door, and waited. 

“Come in,” a voice inside called. 

Orsini opened the door, and pushed it open.  

Mr Southwick was sitting at the long table, alone.  His charts were spread out in front of him, and he was working with dividers and magnifying glass.  “Ah, Mr Orsini,” the master said, sitting back when he saw Orsini.  “Bring your young eyes here and read this for me.” 

Orsini went over to the old man’s side, and bent over the chart.  He read off the labels that Southwick was pointing at.  “Breaking water at low tide,” he read.  “Seven fathoms.  Seven, seven, six, five, four.  Sand and kelp.” 

“Ah, kelp,” Southwick said, nodding, and Orsini realized he had been struggling to make out that particular notation.  “Kelp, of course.”  He removed the paperweights from the corners and allowed the chart to roll up.  “If you are looking for Mr Martin, I’m afraid he is not here.” 

“No, sir,” Orsini said.  “No, it is you I seek, Mr Southwick, sir.  You know, we are sailing to England?” 

“Yes, I seem to remember laying off the course for the captain, a whole hour ago.” 

“And you know it is my intention to sit my examination as soon as I reach London,” Orsini said.  “I wish to ask you for a letter of recommendation that I can take with me, to certify that I have learned diligently everything that you can teach me.”  

“You don’t need a letter from _me,”_ Southwick said, frowning at Orsini. 

“Yes, I do, sir.  A letter from you, saying that you think I am ready to take the examination.  If you do think so.  That is, if you do think I am ready, although I think I am now, I think.”

“You don’t need a letter from _me,”_ Southwick said.  “You’ve all your papers and certificates, and a letter from the captain about your sea time.  You have to present yourself at the Navy Board Office in London with those.” 

Orsini knotted his fingers behind his back.  “I am not going to the Navy Board, sir.  I am going to Trinity House.”   

Southwick shook his head, in a kindly way.  “Trinity House doesn’t take examinations for lieutenant, my boy.”   

“Yes!” Orsini said, glad that Southwick understood.  “Exactly!  I am not going to sit for lieutenant.  I am going to sit for Sailing Master.” 

Southwick stared at him.  “Say that again?” 

“I want to be a Sailing Master,” Orsini said.  “That is why I need a letter from _you_.  The Brotherhood at Trinity House knows you very well.  A letter from _you_ will help me a long way.” 

Southwick opened and closed his mouth. 

Orsini puffed out his chest, and launched into his prepared speech.  He had sat in the maintop practicing it over and over this morning, and now he had it just right. 

“It makes perfect sense.  If I am a Sailing Master, then I never have to worry about the Test Act, because I will never have a King’s commission.  I don’t want to give up the sea just because of the stupid Test Act – and I don’t have to, either!  I can be Catholic and a naval officer, as long as I am a warrant officer! _”_

 _“You_ can’t be a warrant officer,” Southwick interrupted him.  He pushed himself up to his feet, his distress in his face.  “You’re a gentleman!"

“Yes, I can,” Orsini said.  “Aft the most honour, but forward the better men.  That’s what _you_ taught me.    And everyone knows that the Sailing Masters are the _real_ sailors, anyway.  I have wanted to be a sailor ever since I saw my first ship.  I want to know _everything_ about the sea.  I want to know what you know.  I want to be what you _are._ ”   

“But you have a _title!”_   Southwick said. 

“Yes, I know,” Orsini said.  “But I am also an orphan.  I don’t remember my parents at all.  I was raised by servants in a big empty palace, and the only father I have ever known is you, and Mr Ramage.  I have always thought it was a pity that you never had a son of your own, but you _are_ like a father to _me,_ and I think I should be very proud to call myself …  _No, no, no!_ Why are you doing that?  Don’t do that!” 

Southwick had sunk down into his chair again.  He pressed both wrinkled hands to his face. 

“Sir?  Mr Southwick?” 

Southwick shook his head, without removing his hands from his face.  His white hair fell over his fingers. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you!” Orsini protested.  “Why are you sad?” 

Southwick lowered his hands, and Orsini saw that the old man’s eyes were red.   Southwick had shed tears, hidden behind his hands, but he was an Englishmen, and Englishmen tried very hard to pretend that they never wept. 

 “I’m not sad, my boy,” he said. 

“I did not mean to upset you!” 

“I’m not upset,” Southwick said, and sniffed.  “You took an old man by surprise, that is all.  Does Mr Ramage know what your plan is?” 

“I think he knows,” Orsini said.  “But _he_ already has all the lieutenants who want to be just like him.  Will you write me a letter?  Please?  I want to go to Trinity House as soon as I get back to London.”

“Yes,” Southwick said.  “Of course.” 

“If Mr Loach can become an officer, _allora,_ a Count can become a Sailing Master.  And I will be very proud to wear that uniform, because if I pass my examination, I will have _earned it.”_  

“Yes, of course,” Southwick said.  He rubbed his eyes.  “You’re going to need more lessons before you’re ready.  Your navigation will have to be top notch.”

“I know,” Orsini said.  “Mathematics is never going to be easy.  It just means I will have to work harder.” 

“I’ll teach you as much as I can.” 

“I’ll practice all the way to England,” Orsini promised.  “All the time.  You’ll be very proud of me.”

“My boy, I am _already_ proud of you.  I am _so_ proud of you, you have no idea how…”  Southwick pressed both hands over his face again. 

“Be off with you, boy!” he snapped, brusquely, without lowering his hands.  “Off with you!” 

“Aye aye, sir!”  Orsini snapped a crisp salute.

* * *

 

 The _Principe Real_ was not the only ship readying itself for sea, Ramage saw, as his boat’s crew rowed him back toward the _Dido._   Across the water, the _Amethyst_ ’s boat was rowing toward their ship.  He could see the tops of water casks poking up like the round heads of shaven men.  No-one took on fresh water until they meant to sail, because every day in cask was another extra day for the water to go green. 

“Pull for the _Amethyst,”_ Ramage said to Stafford. 

“The _Amethyst,_ aye aye,” Stafford said, automatically.  He put the tiller over, and the boat began to pull toward the _Amethyst._

Ramage climbed up the side of the _Amethyst._   He crested the ship’s entryport and pulled himself in, just as Yorke came bustling up toward him, his face all smiles. 

“Nicholas!  Just the man I wanted to see.  Isabel is just below, she’ll come up to see you in a minute.”

“Sidney,” Ramage shook his hand.  “You’re filling up on water?”  He nodded over to where the _Amethyst_ ’s laden boat was pulling laboriously towards them.  He could see Appleby, standing in the stern, shading his eyes and looking up at the hull towards them. 

“We’re sailing to Rio de Janeiro,” Yorke said. 

“You’re not waiting for a convoy?”

“I have a convoy.  The Prince Regent is going there.  We’ll sail in company.”

“And then I suppose you’ll be going back across the Pond?

“That’s my plan, eventually,” Yorke agreed, happily.  “The exiles left rather a lot of things behind in Lisbon.  The French might rule Portugal, but there’s a fortune to be had, sneaking things out from under Boney’s  nose.  And, of course, I still need to introduce Isabel to my family.  My sister doesn’t even know that I’m married yet.”

“I’m heading for London,”  Ramage said.  “I’ve just got my sailing orders from Captain Walker.”

“Immediately?”

“In a day or two.  We’ll leave at the same time that you do.  I’ll carry a letter for Alexis for you.” 

“That would be wise,” Yorke said.  “I don’t want her to find out through rumours.  Ah, here’s Isabel!  Isabel, dear.”

Yorke shifted, opening the circle of their conversation to let Isabel join them.  She came up to Yorke’s side.  He slipped a hand against Isabel’s spine, an affectionate touch, and the married couple shared a small giddy smile with each other. 

“Nicholas is sailing soon,” Yorke told her. 

“Sailing, so soon?” 

“Leaving,” Yorke agreed.  “I think now’s the time to tell him, sweets?” 

 Isabel nodded.  _“Sim,_ we tell him now.  I want to see his face!”  She smiled at Ramage, sparkling with mischief. 

“Tell me what?” Ramage asked. 

“We want to thank you,” Isabel said. 

Yorke cleared his throat.  “For _carpe puellam,_ ” he said.  “The right advice at the right time, and all that.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” Ramage said, waving it off.  “I just gave you a bit of a push.” 

“Well, it was the right push at the right time,” Yorke said. 

“And we have decided,” Isabel said, glancing at her husband for support.  “We have choosed the name of our first child.  If he is a boy, his name will be Nicholas.”

Ramage gawped at her. 

“You can’t name your child after _me!”_ he said, blurting the first thing that came into his mouth while his mind floundered to grasp the news. 

“Of course we can!” Isabel said, laughing at his face.  “Oh, Sidney, he is embarrass, for shame on you!” 

“Nicholas Yorke?” Ramage said.  “I thought your family tradition was for Edwards!” 

“It is,” Yorke said.  “Nicholas Edward Yorke.” 

“Nicolau Eduardo Yorke, for my half of the family,” Isabel said. 

“N.E. Yorke.  Nick, or Ned for short.  D’ye like that?” 

“My word!  Nicholas Yorke!”  Ramage laughed at the sheer pleasure of the name.  “Can I be his godfather?"

“Yes, of course!” Yorke and Isabel said, in one voice. 

Ramage laughed. 

The sun was warm, the sea was blue, and his friends were all around him, and he realized that he was happy. 

The last few months had been difficult.  He had seen battles, and storms.  He had fought and killed an old friend.  He had finally given up on his own unborn sons.  He was tired. 

But somehow, the fleet of exiles had carried him into a new year.  He was broken, but he was not defeated.  He could not go back, but he was going to move forward.  He didn’t know how yet, but he sensed it. A new Empire had been born; a new marriage; a new year; new friends, and all was well. 

 

 


End file.
